
y-^y 


mmm 


ippiii 










-,- *****&•’ ^-3Xs^ 

,.\ <#r %$sP3r\ , 

^ i‘ ^HfcVv <$r ^s, wF 

■•^N -S» \ \ • V V 

































Til Cmmist Oi PtlSSliS. 


A TALE OF PROVINCIAL LIFE. 


(LA CONQUETE DE PLASSANS.) 

BY EMILE ZOLA. 

« * 

AUTHOR OF “ L’ASSOMMOIR,” “ THE ROUGON-MACQUART FAMILY,” 
“ HELENE, ” “THE ABBE’S TEMPTATION/’ ETC. 

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH 

BY JOHN STIRLING. 


"The Conquest of Plassans” has in it two extraordinary characters , absohitely 
original in conception and execution. These are the Abbe Faujas and his mother , who 
come, as the title of the volume indicates , to bring under their control the provincial 
to7un of Plassans. These two figures pervade the book The Abbe being the incarna- 
tion of ambition and the spirit of domination. IVe see that he has but one end in view. 
The mother of the Abbe is equally remarkable in her unselfishness and devotion. 
Zola' s command of language is absolutely marvellous, and he uses it so accurately 
that the reader has before him the individual , the act or the scene, the hour of the day 
or night , the very light and atmosphere which were present to the mind and imagina- 
tion of the Author. He makes us perceive the smell of vice, not the perfume ; his 
nude figures are those of the anatomical table, which do not inspire the slightest im- 
moral thought. There is not one of his books, not even the crudest, that does not leave 
in the soul, pure, firm and immutable , aversion or scorn for the base passions of 
which he treats. “The Conquest of Plassans” is perhaps more artistic than any 
of Zola’ s works, and the plot unfolds itself gradually from the beginning to the end , 
with a microscopic delineation of character and motive worthy of Balzac. 




-y •>•( Or Cu 

s V'"c.o rYRIG ' 


n s 


. .. 0. . J.JS.X.,. 

V>A ’879 


PHILADELPHIA: 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS; 

306 CHESTNUT STREET. 


Y Of ws *, 







T. 33. PETERSOiT &c BROTHERS. 

1879. 


copyright: 


, ~2L -]4-C a 

.a 



The Conqnest of Plassans ; or, Fa Conqu€te De Plassans. By 

Zola, author of “ L’Assommoir,” “ Helene,” “ The Abbe’s Temptation.” 

“The Conquest of Plassans” has in it two extraordinary characters, absolutely 
original in conception and execution. These are the Abbe Faujas and his mother, who 
come, as the title of the volume indicates, to bring under their control the provincial 
town of Plassans. These two figures pervade the book. The Abbe being the incarna- 
tion of ambition and the spirit of domination. We see that he has but one end in view. 
The mother of the Abbe is equally remarkable — unselfish and devoted. Zola’s command 
of language in it is absolutely marvellous, and he uses it so accurately that the reader 
has before him the individual, the act or the scene, the hour of the day or night, the 
very light and atmosphere which were present to the mind and imagination of the 
Author. He makes us perceive the smell of vice, not the perfume ; his nude figures are 
those of the anatomical table, which do not inspire the slightest immoral thought. 
There is not one of his books, not even the crudest, that does not leave in the soul, pure, 
firm and immutable, the aversion or scorn for the base passions of which he treats. 

L’Assonunolr. A Novel. By fimile Zola , the great French novelist. Over One 
Hundred Thousand Copies have already been sold in Paris of “ L'Assommoir.” 

“L’Assommoir” is one of the greatest and most extraordinary works ever written, 
full of nature and of art, dramatic, narrative, and pictorial. In it, vice is never made 
attractive, but “ Zola” paints it in all its hideous reality, so that it may tend to a moral 
end, for in it he unquestionably calls “a spade a spade.” “ L’Assommoir” is without a 
rival. The translator, John Stirling, has done his work in the most able manner. 

The Rou^on-Macquart Family ; or, Fa Fortune des Rougon. 

By JEmile Zola, author of “ L’Assommoir,” “ Helene,” “The Abbe's Temptation.” 

In “The Rougon-Macquart Family” Zola depicts people as he sees them, but not 
through jaundiced eyes ; he sets down their passions and their weaknesses, their petty 
jealousies, and small rivalries; his heart is as tender as his pen is forcible, while his love 
of Nature is apparent in every chapter he writes; his descriptions of scenery and flowers 
are as minute as his dissection of the human heart. No reader, however careless, can 
peruse unmoved the pathetic story of Silvere and Miette, which is as absolutely tender 
and touching as anything known in modern fiction, and no one can deny that Zola has 
painted his pictures in colors which can never fade. 

The Abba’s Temptation ; or. Fa Faute de F’Ab!>6 Mouret. A 

Love Story. By jZmile Zola, author of “ L’Assommoir,” “ Helene,” etc. 

“The AbbIs’s Temptation,” by fimile Zola, writes one of the most noted literary 
editors in New York, to John Stirling, the translator, “ is the sweetest love story I ever 
read, and is a great book, for there is much in the work that is lovely and pathetic. It is 
a work of marvellous ability, not immoral in any sense, while it teaches a great lesson. 
As Zola depicts the innocent love and purity of the unhappy Abbe, one can scarce believe 
that he, who wrote ‘ L’Assommoir,' can be the author of this sweet, pathetic love story.” 

H£Ifcne, a Fove Episode ; or, Fne Page D’Amonr. By fimile Zola, au- 
thor of “ L’Assommoir,” “The Abbe’s Temptation; or, La Faute de L’Abbe Mouret.” 

“H£le:ne” is admirably written, is full of powerful and life-like delineations of char- 
acter, and is the great sensation in Paris, for the book is admirably written by a truly 
great artist. The characters and scenes in “ Helene ” are well conceived and well exe- 
cuted, and it is impossible to deny the author’s great skill, for every reader will acknow- 
ledge “Zola’s” great power in “Helene.” Besides the story, there are many pages 
devoted to rapturous descriptions of Paris at sunrise, at noonday, at sunset, and at night. 
Zola has made his name famous, and he will find plenty of readers for all he writes. 


TRANSLATOR’S PREFACE. 


QOME explanation is due to the Public, and 
more to the Author, for certain things in my 
translations of the “ Rougon-Macquart Series.” 
It is not my purpose to enter into a discussion of 
the relative merits of the Realistic and the Roman- 
tic Schools of which Emile Zola and Victor Hugo 
are the exponents and representative men. My 
readers have nothing to do with that, but they 
have a right to demand, that in my attempts to 
render into English the words and ideas of my 
Author, I shall in nowise alter the sense, nor 
weaken his expressions. Zola’s command of lan- 
guage is absolutely marvellous, and he uses it so 
accurately that the reader has before him the 
individual, the act or the scene, the hour of the 
day or night, the very light and atmosphere which 

( 13 ) 


14 


translator’s preface. 


were present to the mind and imagination of the 
Author; but as he writes for a Public that has 
little superfluous delicacy as regards the use of 
words, some of his language needs pruning and 
softening, to be acceptable on our side of the water. 

It is here, and here alone, that I have ventured 
to differ from my text — not in any spirit of fault- 
finding or reproach — for I hold that Zola is no 
more reprehensible in that respect than was 
Shakespeare when he held the mirror up to 
Nature. 

Realism means to the minds of some, the use of 
atrociously vulgar and indelicate words for the 
expression of their ideas. I hold, however, that 
Realism means rather, the describing of things as 
they are — as we see them and as we feel them — 
ascribing to Vice and to Virtue their true motives, 
making them hideous or lovable, according to the 
sources from which they spring. 

Such, so far as I can understand my Author, 
is the aim and object in this series of novels 
wherein he undertakes to follow the transmission 
of certain qualities, vicious and virtuous, of the 


translator’s preface. 


15 


parent stock through four generations, cropping 
out in good or in evil, despite the surroundings. 

At the same time, as a recent clever Italian 
author j ustly remarks : 

“ Zola’s art is rather a reproduction than a crea- 
tion. His novels are hardly romances. They have 
no framework nor scarcely a vertebral column. 
Try to relate one; it is impossible. They are 
composed of an immense number of details which 
generally escape you after perusal, like the thou- 
sand little pictures in a Dutch museum; and for 
this reason you read them again and again with 
pleasure. His characters are not people who play 
the comedy; but those intent upon their own 
affairs, taken suddenly by a photographer without 
being aware of it.” 

The whole action of these novels is within the 
period of the Second Empire, and chance, or 
Timprevu , as they call it in France, has been 
singularly propitious. 

In “ The Rougon - Macquart Family,” the 
first of the series, we have the origin of the 
parent stock — brought, like many other ignoble 


16 


translator’s preface. 


servitors of the dynasty, into prominence by 
political intrigue. 

“La Conquete de Plassans,” translated and 
published under the title of “The Conquest of 
Plassans,” which we now have the pleasure of 
presenting to our readers, has two extraordinary 
characters, absolutely original in conception and 
execution. These are the Abbe Faujas and his 
mother, who come, as the title of the volume indi- 
cates, to bring under their control the provincial 
town of Plassans. These two figures pervade the 
book. The Abbe being the incarnation of ambition 
and the spirit of domination. We perceive this 
from the first moment of his arrival in Plassans. 
We see that he has but one end in view. The 
mother of the Abbe is equally remarkable — un- 
selfish and devoted. She is eager to gain for this 
adored son, even by the most questionable means, 
those luxuries and amenities of life, which she 
scorns and rejects for herself. For his sake she 
endures the most abject toil, finding her only 
reward in a smile or kind word from him. This 
work is perhaps more artistic than any of the 


translator’s preface. 


17 


series. The plot unfolds itself gradually with a 
microscopic delineation of character and motive 
worthy of Balzac. 

Next comes “ La Faute de l’Abbe Mouret,” 
recently published under the title of “ The Abbf/s 
Temptation.” After this “ Son Excellence 
Eugene Rougon,” which again deals with the 
political intrigues of the day. 

To the Parisian, who can name in actual life 
each figure, and each prominent act in the novel, 
as the fictitious personages flit across the stage, 
these portions of the books have a more vivid 
interest than to the American reader, who cannot 
read between the lines. 

I may therefore be pardoned if, realizing this 
very fully, I have slightly condensed such por- 
tions as not necessary to the development and 
completeness of the story. 

“Le Yentre de Paris,” “ L’Assommoir,” “La 
Curee,” “La Faute de l’Abbe Mouret,” and 
“Une Page d’ Amour” translated and published 
under the title of “ Helene ; A Love Episode,” 
have little to do with politics. Despite the people 


18 


translator’s preface. 


among whom Zola takes us — profligate women — 
ambitious and unscrupulous men — despite their 
vices and their foul tongues, I think I may safely 
say that Zola is one of the most moral writers of 
France. To quote once more : 

“ He makes us perceive the smell of vice, not 
the perfume ; his nude figures are those of the 
anatomical table, which do not inspire the slight- 
est immoral thought. There is not one of his 
books, not even the crudest, that does not leave 
in the soul — pure, firm and immutable — aversion 
or scorn for the base passions of which he treats.” 
There is not a page, nor a line, nor even an 
expression, which can do one-tenth the harm or 
mischief, to the mind or morals, that can be done 
by the works of the Romantic school, where vice 
is glamoured with fine phrases, and lust hallowed 
with romance. 


John Stirling. 


CONTENTS. 


— — —4 >• 

CHAPTER ' PAGE 

I. COMING EVENTS CAST THEIR SHADOWS BEFORE.. 21 

II. THE PRIEST AND HIS MOTHER 32 

III. USEFUL INFORMATION 48 

IV. INTRODUCTIONS 62 

V. FELICITE AGAIN 76 

VI. MISTAKES 92 

VII. A CLOSER ACQUAINTANCE 109 

VIII. A WORK OF CHARITY 126 

IX. CONFESSION 140 

X. POPULARITY 152 

XI. MONSEIGNEUR 165 

XII. THE NEW CLUB 179 

XIII. REBELLION 188 

XIV. BATTLEDOOR AND SHUTTLECOCK 203 

XV. AN IRON HAND 216 

XVI. MOTHER AND DAUGHTER 236 

XVII. IN THE WATCHES OF THE NIGHT 256 

XVIII. A STRANGE APPARITION 278 

XIX. THE ELECTIONS 298 

XX. FORESIGHT 316 

XXI. SOWING THE WHIRLWIND 343 

XXII. FIRE ! FIRE ! 356 

XXIII. THE SOUTANE « 368 


( 19 ) 


• :> 

* i * * -* r 

• » • r* j • »*••>•• 

* • # ’ j i » i * .» j 

* > • * ’ > • > 3 » I J 3 J J t (» I vM 9 1 * i. i» % 

> ' ' ’ .1 ) * J J .1 J 3 i ® J J * ,» • 3 > ‘ » • ) « j • 

' » '••/>*• » J .» » " » * .1 J > • ^ J ■* ^ ? > ' » J » > • . 

• • 4 • • I > I » . > f J . J * » » J J ? • ♦ • ♦ 1 | * ■ * « 1 « » • 

» > » • ' » ’ > t f 9 * 3 * ' 9 » 9 * J * » I * • » > 1 * ^ . 

»>„•».» I ' • 1 * * .• • • •• * * •* • 

• ,J » I .<'»•/>» ij * ^ ^ 

• ' ’ > • v« ■»»•>»• 

»*>*•••• ... . . 

. • * '"II . **« -5 

• * - > :i • i • »•*»• »*.*»•• »>••.. * . 

■ • • 




THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 

A TALE OF PROVINCIAL LIFE. 


FROM THE FRENCH OF 

(LA CONQUETE DE PLASSANS.) 

IB IE UVE I IB E Z CD L 

AUTHOR OF “ l'ASSOMMOIR,” “ THE ROUGON-MACQUART FAMILY ; OR, LA FORTUNE 
DES ROUGON,” “ HELENE ; OR, UNE PAGE D* AMOUR,” “ THE ABBE'S 
TEMPTATION ; OR, LA FAUTE DE L*ABBE MOURET.” 

TRANSLATED BY JOHN STIRLING. 

■ -> 


CHAPTER I. 

COMING EVENTS CAST THEIR SHADOWS BEFORE. 

D ESIREE clapped her hands. She was a tall, well- 
grown girl of fourteen, but her laugh was like 
that of a child of five. 

“ Mamma ! mamma ! ” she cried ; u see my doll ! ” 

She had taken from her mother a piece of cloth, over 
which she had worked for an hour to make it into a doll, 
rolling it up and tying it at the ends with a string. 

Marthe lifted her eyes from the stocking she was mend- 
ing with all the delicacy of embroidery, and smiled at 
Desiree as she said : (21) 


22 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


“ Your doll must have a skirt like a lady.” 

She handed to the girl a bit of calico that lay on her 
work-table, and then returned to her careful stitches on 
her stocking. They were sitting at the end of the narrow 
terrace — the girl on a low bench at her mother’s feet. 
The setting sun — a September sun which was still 
warm — bathed them in its tranquil yellow light; while 
before them the garden slept in gray shadow. Not a 
sound from the outside world penetrated this deserted 
corner of the town. 

They worked on for another ten minutes in silence, 
Desiree taking great pains with her doll’s skirt. Marthe 
occasionally lifted her eyes and looked at the child with 
sad but infinite tenderness. 

She saw that the child had difficulty in doing what 
she desired. 

“Wait a moment,” said the mother; “I will arrange 

the arms for vou.” 

* 

She took the doll. At that moment two tall lads of 
seventeen and eighteen came down the steps and toward 
their mother. 

“Do not scold us,” said Octave, as he kissed her. “It 
was I who induced Serge to go and hear the music; there 
was a great crowd to-day on the Cours Sauvaire.” 

“I supposed you were kept at school,” answered the 
mother, softly; “but for that I should have been 
anxious.” 

But Desiree, without another thought for her doll, 
threw herself on the neck of her brother Serge, crying out: 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


23 


“My bird has flown away — -the Bluebird you gave 
me ! ” 

She was quite ready to weep. Her mother, who sup- 
posed she had forgotten her woe, showed her the doll in 
vain. She would not release her hold on her brother’s 
arm, but repeated as she drew him toward the garden : 

“ Come and see ! Just come and see ! ” 

Serge, with his usual gentle sweetness, followed her 
with the strong desire to console her. She led him to a 
tiny hot-house, before which an empty bird-case stood on 
the ground. She explained that the bird had flown just 
as she opened the door to prevent him from quarrelling 
with another. 

“ I don’t think that is very amazing,” cried Octave, 
who was seated astride of the railing of the terrace; “she 
is always handling them — always looking to see how they 
are made, and what they have in their throats to sing with. 
The other day she carried them about all the afternoon in 
her pocket to keep them warm, she said.” 

“Octave!” murmured his mother, in a tone of reproach, 
“ do hot torment the poor child.” 

Desiree had not heard, however. She was telling Serge 
a long story of how the bird had flown away. 

“You see, he went like a flash, and perched on Mon- 
sieur Rastoil’s great pear tree, and from there he flew to 
the grape-vine way back. Then he went right over my 
head, and disappeared in the great trees in the Prefect’s 
garden, and I saw him no more — ” 

Tears filled her eyes. 


24 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


“ He will come back, perhaps,” Serge ventured to say. 

“Do you really think so? I might put the others in a 
box, and leave the cage door open all night.” 

Octave shouted with laughter, but Marthe called 
Desiree. 

“ Come and see this ! ” she said, cheerfully, and handed 
the doll to the young girl. 

The doll was really superb. It had a stiff, rustling 
skirt, a head ingeniously stuffed, and arms sewn on at the 
shoulders. Desiree’s face lighted up with sudden joy. 
She took her seat once more on the low bench, thinking 
no more of the bird, but kissing the doll, rocking it in 
her arms as if she were not more than five or six years 
old. Serge was sitting on the railing by the side of his 
brother. Marthe had taken up her stocking once more. 

“Then there was music this afternoon?” she asked. 

“Yes, there is always music on Thursdays,” answered 
Octave. “ You made a great mistake, mamma, not to 
come. Everybody in town was there — the Rastoil young 
ladies, Madame de Condamin, Monsieur Paloque, the 
Mayor’s wife and daughter. Why do you never come?” 

Marthe did not lift her eyes. As she took up her 
stitches on her long slender needle she said, quietly: 

“You know, my children, that I do not like to go out; 
I am so peaceful here. Besides, some one must always 
stay with Desiree.” 

Octave opened his lips, but he looked at his sister, and 
did not speak. He swung his heels, stared up at the big 
trees overhead, noisy with the chattering of sparrows 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


25 


going to roost, and inquisitively contemplated the pears in 
their neighbor’s garden. The sun was slowly setting. 
Serge took a book from his pocket, and began to read with 
earnest attention. 

There was a long silence. Tender and sweet was the 
yellow light, gradually fading from the sky. Marthe, 
watching her three children, sat drawing long needlesful of 
thread through her work with a regular motion. 

“ Every one is late to-night, I think,” she said, at last. 
“ It is nearly eight o’clock, and your father has not come 
in ; I think he went to Tulettes.” 

“ In that case,” answered Octave, “ you need not look 
for him yet, for the peasants at Tulettes never let him go 
when once they get hold of him. Did he go to buy 
wine?” 

“ I don’t know,” answered Marthe ; “ I did not ask, for 
he never cares to talk much about his business.” 

Another long silence. In the dining-room, whose long 
windows opened on the terrace, old Rose was laying the 
table with considerable rattling of glass and silver. She 
appeared to be in a very bad humor, for she pushed the 
furniture about, and kept up a constant muttering. At 
last she went to the street-door, and looked across the 
Square. After a few moments of silent watching she came 
toward the group on the terrace. 

’ “Then Monsieur Mouret is not coming home to-night?” 

“Oh, yes, Rose,” answered Marthe, gently; “wait a 
little.” 

“ But everything is burning ! There is no sense in it. 


26 THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 

When my master means to stay away like this, he ought 
to tell a body. But after all I don’t know why I should 
care. The dinner won’t be fit to eat.” 

“ Do you really think so, Rose?” said a quiet voice 
behind her. “ We will eat your dinner all the same 
though ! ” 

It was Mouret who spoke. Rose turned around hastily, 
quite ready to burst out with a torrent of reproaches, but 
before the absolute calmness of her master’s face she had 
not one word to say, and went away. Mouret walked up 
and down the terrace, but did not take a seat. He gave 
a little tap on her cheek to Desiree, who smiled at him. 
Marthe looked up, and after a moment’s earnest observa- 
tion, folded her work, and laid it in her basket. 

“ You are tired, are you not?” asked Octave, looking 
at his father’s shoes which were white with dust. 

“ Yes — a little,” answered Mouret, quietly, and said no 
more of the very long walk he had taken. 

Presently he caught sight, in the middle of the garden, 
of a rake and spade the children had carelessly left there. 

“ Why does not some one bring in those tools?” he 
asked. “I have told you hundreds of times that they 
must not be left there. If it should come on to rain they 
would be rusted and ruined ! ” 

He was not angry, but went down to the garden him- 
self, took the rake and the spade, and hung them up 
carefully in the little conservatory. As he went back to 
the terrace he looked about to see if all else was in order. 

“Are you learning your lessons?” he asked, as he 
passed Serge, who was still poring over his book. 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


27 


“ No, father,” answered the boy ; “ it is a book that the 
Abbe Bourette lent me — ‘ Missions in China/ ” 

Mouret stood in front of his wife. 

“Has no one been here?” he asked. 

“ No one, my dear,” answered Marthe, with an air of 
surprise. 

He walked up and down two or three times in silence; 
then going toward the steps, he cried out : 

“ How about that dinner, Bose — the dinner that was 
burning?” 

From the end of a corridor came the cook’s angry voice: 
“You will have to wait, sir; there is nothing ready 
now. Everything is cold ! ” 

Mouret smiled quietly and winked at his wife and 
the children. The cook’s anger seemed to afford him 
infinite amusement. Presently he became quite absorbed 
in the contemplation of his neighbor’s fruit trees. 

“It is very surprising,” he muttered, “ that Monsieur 
Rastoil should have such fine pears again this year.” 
Marthe had been anxiously waiting for an opportunity 
to put the question which had hovered on her lips for the 
last few moments, and she now said, timidly : 

“Did you expect any one here to-day?” 

“ I did, and I did not,” he replied, as he resumed his 
walk. 

“You have let the second floor, I fancy?” 

“ Yes, I have let it.” 

And, as an embarrassed silence followed, he continued in 
his calm voice : 


28 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


“This morning, before I went to Tulettes, I called on 
the Abbe Bourette ; he was very urgent, and I finally said 
‘Yes.’ I know you do not like it, but just think a 
moment, and I am sure you will be reasonable about it. 
This second story has never been of any use to us. We 
pile our fruit up in the rooms, to be sure, but the damp- 
ness they generate spoils the papers. By the way, now 
that I think of it, pray do not forget to move those fruits 
early in the morning ; the new tenants may come at any 
moment,” 

“ We were so comfortable with the whole house to our- 
selves,” murmured Marthe. 

“ Pshaw!” replied Mouret. “A Priest is nobody; that 
is to say, he is in no one’s way. He will live by himself, and 
we shall see no difference. These black robes hide them- 
selves, if they wish to swallow a glass of water. You 
know that I am not over-fond of them myself. They 
are lazy creatures. The fact that a Priest wanted these 
rooms was what decided me to rent them. You are 
sure of your money with them, and then they are so 
quiet one never even hears them put their key in the 
lock.” 

Marthe was not to be consoled, however. She looked 
about her, at the happy, quiet home, at the soft quiet 
brooding over the garden, where the shadows were growing 
every moment heavier. She looked at her children, 
and thought how happy and peaceful her life had hitherto 
been. 

“ Do you know who this Priest is ? ” she asked. 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


29 


“No, but the Abb6 Bourette gave me his name, and 
that is enough. I know that our new lodger is called 
Faujas — the Abl>6 Faujas — and that he comes from the 
diocese of Besangon. He comes to Saint-Saturnin, and 
probably knows our Bishop, Monsieur Rousselot. But we 
have nothing to do with all this, and so far as I am con- 
cerned, I leave it all with the Abbe Bourette.” 

Even yet Marthe was not reassured. She argued with 
her husband, which was a very rare occurrence. 

“You are right,” she said, after a short silence; “the 
Abbe is an excellent man. Only I remember that when 
he came to visit the rooms, he said he did not know the 
person in whose behalf he was commissioned to engage 
them. He said that it was a matter of business often 
executed by Priests for other Priests in different towns. 
It seems to me that it would be as well to write to 
Besan£on, and find out what you can, about the person you 
intend to receive here.” 

Mouret was in no degree displeased. He laughed 
good-naturedly. 

“ One would think you supposed him to be the Evil 
One. I had no idea you were so superstitious as all that ! 
You do not really believe that Priests bring misfortunes, 
as people say, do you? Nor do they bring happiness 
either. They are much as other men. Well, well; we will 
see when he gets here if I am afraid of his soutane.” 

“No, I am not superstitious,” murmured Marthe. 
“ You know I am not. I am only troubled and disturbed, 
that is all.” 


30 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


He stood in front of her still, and interrupted her with 
an imperative gesture. 

“ It is enough,” he said. “ I have let the rooms. It 
is done. Let us say no more about it.” 

Then he added, in the self-satisfied tone of a man who 
thinks he has made a good bargain : 

“ The best thing about it is, that I have let them for one 
hundred and fifty francs. Please think of that! We 
shall have one hundred and fifty francs more in the house 
each year.” 

Marthe turned away her head in silence, closing her 
eyes to prevent tears from falling. She glanced at her 
children, who, during the explanation that she had just 
had with their father, had not seemed to hear — they being 
probably accustomed to these little scenes. 

“ If you want anything to eat, you can come now,” said 
Pose, sulkily, emerging upon the terrace. 

“ All right!” cried Mouret, gayly; his brief ill-humor 
had vanished. “ Come, children, make haste ! ” 

The family rose. Then Desiree, who had heard all 
that had been said with the stolidity of an underwitted 
child, seemed to feel a new pang. She ran to her father, 
threw her arms around his neck, and sobbed, 

“ Papa, my bird has flown away ! ” 

“Your bird, my darling ? We will catch it again.” 
And he caressed her and soothed her. But she insisted 
that he, too, should go and look at the cage. When he 
came back with the child, his wife and sons were in the 
dining-room. The last gleams of the setting sun coming 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


31 


through the windows lighted up the white cloth, the china 
and the glass. The room was warm and filled with the 
sweet fresh air from the garden. 

As Marthe, calmed by the serenity of the atmosphere, 
smiled as she lifted the cover from the soup tureen, a step 
was heard in the corridor, and Rose came hurriedly in. 

“Madame,” she said, “the Abbe Faujas is here.” 


32 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


CHAPTER II. 

THE PRIEST AND HIS MOTHER. 

M OURET looked excessively annoyed, for he had 
not really looked for his tenant until the next 
day. He rose hastily, just as the Abbe Faujas appeared 
at the door of the corridor. He was a tall, well-built 
man, with a square face, large features and dull complex- 
ion. Behind him, and quite in the shadow, was an aged 
woman, astonishingly like him, though smaller and 
rougher in appearance. 

When they saw the family seated at table, they hesi- 
tated, as if about to retreat, but did not absolutely 
retire. The tall black figure of the Priest cast a dark 
shadow on the white wall. 

“ We ask your pardon for disturbing you in this way,” 
he said to Mouret. “ We have just come-from the Abbe 
Bourette — we supposed he had sent you word.” 

“ No, indeed ! ” answered Mouret, gayly. “ The Abbe 
never does what is expected of him ; he always behaves as 
if he had just stepped down from Paradise. This very 
morning, sir, he told me you would not be here for 
several days. But you must be shown to your rooms all 
the same.” 

The Abb6 Faujas continued to make his excuses. His 
voice was very full and rich, with a sweet and falling 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


33 


inflection at the end of his sentences. He was really un- 
happy at having come at such a moment. When he had 
expressed his regret, without unnecessary words, in a 
well-rounded sentence, he turned to the door to pay the 
man who had brought in his trunk. His large but 
well-shaped hands drew a purse from the folds of his 
soutane — the glitter of the steel rings caught the light; 
he slipped the tips of his fingers within, drew out a piece 
of money which he placed in the hands of the man, 
who withdrew. No one saw the money, no one heard a 
sound. 

Then the Abbe, with exquisite politeness, said to 
Mouret : 

“ Pray, sir, return to the table. Your servant will show 
us the apartment, and will help me carry up these things.” 

He stooped to pick up the trunk, which was a small 
one, of wood, protected at the corners by bands of sheet 
iron; it seemed to have been repaired at one end by a 
cross piece of pine. 

Mouret looked around in surprise, to find the rest of 
the Priest’s luggage; but he saw nothing but a large bas- 
ket, which the old lady held in both hands before her, 
pressed against her skirts, as if unwilling to place it on 
the floor, even for a minute. From within the half-open 
lid protruded the head of a comb, wrapped in paper, and 
the neck of a badly-corked bottle. 

“No! no! Leave the trunk,” said Mouret, touching it 
lightly with his foot, as he spoke. “ It can’t be heavy, 
and Rose can take it up alone, perfectly well.” 


34 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


He was by no means aware of the secret disdain which 
pierced through his words. The old lady looked at him 
fixedly, then turned her black eyes on the table, whose 
every article she examined in lingering succession and 
with tight-shut lips. She had not spoken a word. 

Finally the Abbe Faujas consented to consign the trunk 
to the tender mercies of Rose. In the yellow light of the 
sun, which came through the open garden door, his shabby 
soutane looked very rusty; it had been carefully darned 
and repaired, and was perfectly clean, but so thin and 
forlorn-looking, that Marthe, who had been sitting at the 
table in a reserved sort of way, now rose and came 
forward. 

The Abb6, who had cast one quick, comprehensive 
glance upon her and then turned his eyes away, now saw 
her come toward them, although he did not seem to be 
looking at her. 

" I beg of you/ 7 he said again, " not to allow us to dis- 
turb you in this way. It really troubles me/’ 

"Well, then,” answered Mouret, who was really hungry, 
"Rose shall go up with you. Ask her for whatever you 
require. Make yourselves comfortable — make yourselves 
comfortable ! ” 

The Abbe Faujas, after another bow, had turned to- 
ward the staircase, when Marthe said a few rapid words 
to her husband : 

" Do you not think we ought — ” 

"Ought what?” he asked, seeing that she hesitated. 

" Ought to move the fruit first ? ” 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


35 


“ To be sure, the fruit is there ! Confound it all ! ” 

And as the Abbe turned toward him with a questioning 
air, he continued : 

“I am excessively annoyed, sir. Father Bourette is a 
most excellent man — only it is a great pity that he ever 
undertakes to attend to business, for which he has no 
head whatever. Had we known, everything would have 
been ready for you. As it is, there is really much to do. 
You understand that we utilize those rooms whenever we 
can, and just now, spread out on the floor, are figs, apples 
and grapes.” 

The Priest listened in a surprise that his politeness 
endeavored to conceal. 

“But it will not take so long, after all,” continued 
Mouret. “In less than an hour Pose will have the rooms 
ready.” 

The Abbe looked extremely disturbed. 

“The rooms are furnished, of course?” he asked, 
hastily. 

“Not at all! There is not a stick in them; no one has 
ever occupied them.” 

Then the Priest lost his calm; his gray eyes flashed. 
He exclaimed, with a good deal of restrained anger in his 
voice : 

“ But I especially wrote for furnished lodgings. I 
could not bring my furniture in a trunk, of course.” 

“There, now!” answered Mouret. “Is not that pre- 
cisely what I said? This Bourette is half-cracked! He 
came here, sir; he saw the fruit, for he took up one of the 


36 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


apples and said he had never in his life seen anything 
so beautiful. He said he liked the rooms and was sure 
you would, and then he engaged them.” 

The Abbe Faujas was not listening. An angry color 
flushed his face. He turned and said, in an anxious 
tone: 

“Mother, do you hear? There is no furniture.” 

The old lady, with her thin black shawl closely pinned 
around her, had explored the next room, without dropping 
her basket, however. She had even gone as far as the 
kitchen door, and inspected the four walls; then she had 
gone out on the terrace, and, with one long gaze, had — 
so to speak — taken possession of the garden. But the 
dining-room was more interesting than any other place, 
and she quickly returned to it — still standing against 
the wall, opposite the table where the soup was smoking. 
“Do you hear, mother? We must go to the Hotel.” 
She looked up without a word. Every feature of her 
face expressed a determination not to leave the house 
which she already knew so well. She shrugged her 
shoulders, and her eyes wandered from the kitchen to the 
garden, and from the garden to the dining-room. 

Mouret in the meantime became impatient. He saw 
that neither mother nor son seemed to have the slightest 
idea of leaving the place, and he therefore said : 

“ We have no beds, unfortunately. There is, to be 
sure, in the attic a folding bedstead, which might accommo- 
date Madame for one night perhaps, but I see no place 
where you, sir, could possibly sleep.” 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


37 


At last Madame Faujas opened her lips. 

“ My son can have the folding-bed. Give me a mat- 
tress on the floor; it will do perfectly well.” 

The Abbe nodded approval. Mouret was about to 
expostulate, but these people seemed to be so perfectly 
well pleased with this arrangement, which they apparently 
regarded as a perfectly natural one, that he remained 
silent, contenting himself with exchanging a look of aston- 
ishment with his wife. 

“ To-morrow we shall see daylight,” he said at last : 
“and you can then furnish precisely as you please. Rose 
will come up in a moment, carry off the fruit and bring in 
the beds. Will you kindly wait on the terrace until this 
is done? Come, children, bring out two chairs.” 

The children had, since the arrival of the Priest and 
his mother, been sitting quietly before the table. They 
looked at the new-comers curiously. The Abbe did not 
seem to notice them, but Madame Faujas examined them 
each in turn with the closest scrutiny. They sprang at 
their father’s bidding and carried out the chairs. 

The old lady did not sit down. As Mouret turned 
round to see where she had gone, he discovered her 
planted before the windows of the salon. She stretched 
her neck out and finished her inspection with the tranquil 
ease of a person who visits a piece of property offered for 
sale. As Rose lifted the trunk, she returned to the ves- 
tibule, saying, simply : 

“I will help her.” 

And she went up-stairs with the servant. 


38 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


The Priest did not even turn his head. . He smiled at 
the three children who stood before him. His face was 
very sweet at times, in spite of his heavy brow and the 
rigid compression of his lips. 

“Are these all your children, Madame?” he said to 
Marthe, who was near him. 

“ Yes, sir,” she answered, annoyed by the fixedness of 
his gaze. 

But he looked again at the lads and continued, con- 
templatively : 

“They are tall boys. They will soon be men. Have 
you finished your studies, my young friend ? ” 

He spoke to Serge. Mouret answered for the child : 
“This one has finished, although he is the youngest. 
When I say he has finished I mean that he is a Bachelor, 
for he has entered a college for a year of Philosophy. He 
is the learned one of the family. The other is the eldest, 
but he is the lazy one, and will never amount to much. 
He plays too hard, and likes to be in the street.” 

Octave listened with a smile to these reproaches, while 
Serge drooped his head on hearing his praises. Faujas 
appeared to study them in silence. Then turning to 
Desiree he said, in a gentle voice : 

“ My child, permit me to be your friend.” 

She did not answer, but hid her face, as if in terror, on 
her mother’s shoulder. She, instead of compelling the 
child to look up and reply to the Priest, passed her arm 
around the child’s waist and held her closely. 

“ Excuse her,” she said, sadly ; “ she is not over wise. 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


39 


She will always remain a little girl. She is an Innocent. 
We have never annoyed her by trying to make her 
learn. She is fourteen, and she cares for nothing except 
her birds.” 

Desirde with her mother’s hand in hers seemed to be 
more at ease. She lifted her head, and turned around 
with a smile. Then, with growing courage, she said : 

“ I should like you for a friend, only you must never 
hurt the flies. Do you ever?” 

And as every one laughed she continued, gravely : 

“ Octave crushes them always when he can. It is very 
wicked.” 

The Abbe had taken a chair. He seemed very tired. 
He abandoned himself for a moment or two to the sweet 
peace of the terrace, and looked slowly about the garden 
and at the trees in the neighboring property. This great 
calm, this secluded corner of the little town, astonished 
him greatly. 

“ It is very pleasant here,” he said, slowly. 

Then he relapsed into silence, from which lie awoke 
with a slight start when Mouret said, with a laugh : 

“ Now, sir, if you will permit us, we will go to the table.” 
His wife gave him a look, and he continued : 

“Will you not take a plate of soup with us? Then 
you will not need to go to the Hotel.” 

“ Thank you a thousand times, but we do not care for 
any,” answered the Abbe, in a tone of such extreme polite- 
ness that there was nothing more to be said. 

Then the Mourets returned to the dining-room, where 


40 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


they established themselves. Marthe served the soup, and 
there was soon a great rattling of spoons. The children 
chattered, and Desiree laughed joyously as she listened 
to something her father was saying, for she was delighted 
at finally getting her dinner. 

In the meantime, the Abbe Faujas, whom they had all 
forgotten, remained on the terrace facing the setting sun. 
He did not turn his head, and did not appear to notice 
anything that was going on. As the sun dropped lower 
and lower he took off his hat. Marthe, sitting near the 
window, saw his large head, with the hair already growing 
gray about the temples. A faint red reflection lighted up 
this massive head where the tonsure looked like a huge 
scar. By degrees the light faded, and the figure of the 
Priest was a mere black profile against the gray of the 
twilight sky. 

Not wishing to call Rose, Marthe herself went for a 
lamp and for a dish she wanted. As she returned from the 
kitchen, she met at the foot of the stairs a woman, whom, 
at first, she did not recognize. It was Madame Faujas. 
She had put on a linen cap, and looked exactly like a ser- 
vant, with her cotton dress and her yellow fichu crossed 
over her shoulders and tied behind. Her sleeves were 
rolled up, and she was quite out of breath with the work 
she had been doing. Her stout shoes made a great noise 
as she moved briskly about. 

“Have you got through, Madame?” asked Marthe, with 
a smile. 

“ Oh, yes,” she answered ; “ it only wanted a little energy.” 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


41 


She went out on the terrace. 

“ Ovide, my child, will you come up? All is ready for 
you now.” 

She was obliged to touch her son on the shoulder to 
arouse him from his reverie. The air was growing chilly. 
He shivered, and followed her in silence. As he passed 
before the door of the dining-room, which was brightly 
illuminated by the lamp within, and noisy with the laughter 
and chatter of the children, he looked in and said in his 
rich voice : 

“Allow me to thank you once more, and to apologize for 
all the disturbance I have made for you. We are really 
confused — ” 

“By no means,” interrupted Mouret; “it is we who are 
distressed at being able to do no better for you to-night.” 

The Priest bowed, and Marthe again encountered his 
clear eyes, sharp as those of an eagle. It seemed to her 
that within those eyes, usually so dull and gray, there was 
a quick flash of light, such as one sees on the outside of a 
dark house when a lamp is carried from room to room. 

“Those are odd people,” said Mouret, when the mother 
and son had passed out of sight and hearing. 

“ They do not look very happy,” murmured Marthe. 

“At all events, the mines of Peru are not in his trunk ! 
Why, I could have lifted it with my little finger.” 

Here he was interrupted by Rose, who came down the 
stairs at full speed, so eager was she to narrate the sur- 
prising things she had seen. 

“ Well ! ” she said, planting herself before the table where 


42 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


the family were eating. “ Well ! she is a smart one. That 
old lady is sixty-five, she says, and she can work like a 
horse.” 

“Did she help you move the fruit?” asked Mouret, 
curiously. 

“I should think she did, sir. She carried it in her 
apron — more than I could lift. I said to myself: ‘The 
cloth won’t stand it;’ but it did. It was good and strong. 
We made about ten trips. My arms were broken, but she 
did not mind it in the least, but told me to make haste. 
Saving your presence, sir, I think I heard her swear.” 

Mouret seemed to be much amused. 

“And the beds? ” he asked. 

“ The beds ! Oh ! she made them herself. You should 
see her turn a mattress. She takes it by one end, and up 
it goes like a feather. But she was careful, too. Had she 
been making up a couch for the Infant Jesus, she could not 
have been more particular than she was over that little 
folding-bed for her son. I took four quilts into the room 
and she gave three to him. It was just the same with the 
pillows; she put both on his bed, and has none herself.” 

“And is she going to lie on the floor ? ” 

“ Yes; in a corner, like a dog. She threw a mattress on 
the floor of the next room, saying she would sleep there as 
if she were in Paradise, and she did not take any more 
trouble about it. She said she was never cold, and that her 
head was too hard to be afraid of the floor. I took them 
some fresh water and some sugar, as Madame bade me, 
and — But, bless my heart, they are queer people ! ” 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


43 


Rose finished serving the dinner, which, on this especial 
evening, was somewhat lengthy at the Mouretsk They 
had much to say of their new tenants. In their life, 
which had hitherto gone on with the regularity of clock- 
work, the arrival of these two strangers was a great event. 
They spoke of it as of a catastrophe, with all the minutke 
of detail which serve to pass away the long evenings in 
the Provinces. Mouret delighted in the gossip of the little 
town. At dessert, with his elbows on the table, he seemed 
to bask in the warmth of the room, and repeated for the 
tenth time, with the satisfied air of a thoroughly happy 
man : 

“ This is a great present that Besangon sends to Plassans! 
Did you see the back of his soutane when he turned round? 
I don’t think the Faithful will trouble themselves much 
about him. He is not good-looking enough. The Faithful 
and Devout like handsome Cures.” 

“ His voice is delicious ! ” said Marthe, who was gentle 
and sympathetic. 

“Not when he is angry,” answered Mouret. “Did you 
notice how furious he was when he found out that the 
apartment was not furnished? He is a strong man, too, 
and ought not to mind fatigue much. I am curious to see 
what his furniture will be to-morrow. I hope I shall have 
no trouble about getting my money. To be sure, though, 
I have the Abb6 Bourette to apply to.” 

The Mouret family were not especially religious. The 
very children mocked at the Abbe and his mother. 

Octave imitated the old lady when she stretched out her 

3 


44 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


neck to see into the rooms, and this amused Desiree 
extremely. 

Serge, of a graver and more thoughtful nature, defended 
these poor people. 

Mouret lighted his candle usually at ten o’clock, unless 
he was playing cards, and went off to bed; but to-night, 
at eleven, he was not in the least sleepy. Desiree had 
fallen asleep with her head on her mother’s knee. The 
two boys departed, but Mouret talked on, sitting alone 
with his wife. 

“How old should you think he was?” he asked, 
suddenly. 

“ Who ? ” answered Marthe, who began to be very 
drowsy. 

“Why, the Abbe, of course! Tie must be between 
forty and forty-five. What a big fellow he is! It in a 
shame for him to wear a soutane — he would have made 
such a splendid soldier.” 

After a long silence, he began again, continuing his 
reflections, as it were, aloud : 

“ They came by the six forty-five train, and must have 
called at the Abbe Bourette’s house on their way here. 
They have never dined, I know. We should have seen 
them if they had gone out to the Hotel. I should like to 
know what they have had to eat.” 

Rose was fidgeting about the room, waiting for her 
master and mistress to go to bed, that she might close the 
doors and windows. 

“ I know what they eat,” she said. 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


45 


And as Mouret turned quickly toward her, she 
continued : 

“ Yes, I went up to see if they wanted anything. Not 
hearing any noise, I did not dare knock ; I looked through 
the keyhole.” 

“ Rose ! Rose ! ” said Marthe, severely, “ you know that 
I do not like that ! ” 

“Let her be!” cried Mouret, who at any other time 
would have been quite indignant at the curiosity of the 
woman. 

“You looked through the keyhole, did you?” 

“Yes, sir; but I meant no harm.” 

“Of course not. But what were they doing?” 

“Well, sir, they were eating; the old woman had spread 
a napkin on the corner of the bed, and each time they 
poured out their wine they recorked the bottle and leaned 
it against the pillow.” 

“ But what were they eating?” 

“ I do not know, sir, exactly. There was some pate 
done up in a paper. They had apples, too; but they were 
very small apples.” 

“ They were talking, I suppose. Did you hear what 
they were saying?” 

“No, sir; they were not talking. I watched them for 
a good quarter of an hour. They said not one word, but 
they kept on eating.” 

Marthe rose from her chair, awakening Desiree, and 
said she was going up-stairs. The curiosity shown by her 
husband wounded her sense of delicacy. He rose slow Jy 


46 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


and with evident reluctance; while old Rose, who was 
very religious, continued, in a lower voice : 

“The poor dear man was very hungry. His mother 
gave him the biggest pieces, and watched him eat them 
with as much pleasure as if he had been an invalid. I 
hope he will sleep well — at all events, the sheets are clean 
and fresh, but the rooms certainly do not smell good; 
nobody likes the smell of apples and pears. And not a 
piece of furniture — nothing but the bed in the corner. 
I should be afraid, if I were they, and I should keep the 
light burning all night.” 

Mouret took up his candle. He stood a moment with 
his candle in his hand, and said, several times: 

“It is very strange! Very strange, indeed !” 

He then followed his wife, who was soon in bed and 
asleep, while he still listened to the sounds which came 
from above. 

The Abbe’s room was directly over his own. He heard 
the window gently open, and this puzzled him consider- 
ably. He lifted his head from the pillow and struggled 
against sleep, so anxious was he to know how long the 
Priest would remain at the window. But his fatigue was 
too great, and before long Mouret was sound asleep, and 
had not heard the window close again. Above, the Abbe 
stood, bare-headed, looking out into the darkness of the 
night. He was thankful to be alone, and able to abandon 
himself to those thoughts which sat so heavily on his 
brow. 

He felt the great calmness of the house, the tranquil 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


47 


sleep in which all the inhabitants were wrapped, the pure 
breathing of the children, the long-drawn, honest sighs 
of Marthe, and the heavy, regular respiration of Mouret. 

The Priest threw back his head, with contempt in every 
line of his strong throat, as he looked down on the little 
sleeping town. The huge trees in the Prefect’s garden 
were a black mass, and the pear trees of Monsieur 
Rastoil stretched out their gnarled limbs; beyond, all was 
vague and uncertain — a blank from which no sound arose. 
The town slept with the innocence of a babe in the cradle. 

The Abb6 Faujas extended his arms with an air of 
ironical defiance, as if he wished to grasp Plassans and 
stifle it in his strong embrace. He murmured : 

“And these fools laughed to-night as I passed through 
their streets !” 


48 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


CHAPTER III. 

USEFUL INFORMATION. 

M OIJRET spent the morning of the next day in 
watching his new lodger. This espionage in 
future would fill the empty hours which he was in the 
habit of spending, wandering about the house, supervising 
his wife and children, and interfering with everything. 
Henceforward he would have an occupation and an 
amusement, which would be to him of unflagging interest. 
He did not like Cures, as he had no hesitation in saying, 
and the first Priest who fell under his observation inter- 
ested him to a most extraordinary degree. This Priest 
brought with him an odor of mystery, which was almost 
appalling. Although he called himself an “ esprit fort” 
— a disciple of Voltaire — he was none the less in a state 
of perpetual amazement in regard to the Abbe — an 
amazement which had no small mixture of curiosity. 

There came no sound from the upper floor. Mouret 
listened at the stairs, and then concluded to ascend to the 
attic. He walked through the corridor very slowly, and 
a little rustling which he heard behind the door — a sound 
which he fancied to be a stealthy footstep — excited him 
immensely. 

Not being able to make any discoveries there, however, 
he went down to the garden, and walked to the very end, 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


49 


where he stood, and surveyed the windows of the Abbe’s 
rooms. But he could see nothing. Madame Faujas, who 
of course had as yet no curtains, had improvised them 
with sheets. 

Mouret appeared at the breakfast-table considerably out 
of temper. 

“Are they all dead above stairs, I wonder?” he said, as 
he cut some bread for the children. “Have you heard 
any movement there, Marthe?” 

“No, my dear, I have not paid any attention to them.” 

Rose called out from the kitchen: 

“They went out long ago; and if they are still going 
at the pace with which they left the house, they are far 
away by this time!” 

Mouret called in the cook, and questioned her minutely. 

“Yes, sir, they are out: the mother went first, and then 
the Cure followed. I should not have seen them, for they 
did not make a sound, but for their shadows which fell on 
the floor of my kitchen, as they went through the door. 
I looked out after them, and they were just turning the 
corner.” 

“That is very strange. Where on earth could I have 
been?” 

“ I think, sir, you were at the foot of the garden, look- 
ing at the grapes.” 

This little disappointment put Mouret in a wwse humor 
than before, and he began a little oration against Priests. 
They were all manoeuvrers, and liked to work in the dark. 
They put on great airs of goodness, but for his part he did 


50 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


not think them any better than other people. He ended 
his discourse by saying he was sorry that he had rented 
his rooms to this Abbe whom he knew nothing about. 

“ It is all your fault/’ he said to his wife, as they rose 
from the table. 

Marthe was about to protest and remind him of their 
discussion of the evening before, but she checked herself 
and said nothing. Mouret could not make up his mind to 
go out as usual at this hour. He moved restlessly about 
from the dining-room to the garden and back again, 
declaring that there was not a thing in order anywhere — 
that the whole house was going to destruction — and then 
he fretted about the two boys whom he said had gone off 
a full half hour too early to their college. 

“ Is not papa going out?” whispered Desiree to her 
mother; “he worries us so!” 

Marthe hushed her, and Mouret finally spoke of some 
business that was to be concluded that day. He wished 
he could ever have a minute to rest — a minute in 
which he could be allowed to feel that he was not in a 
hurry. He needed rest, but he never had it, he mut- 
tered. At last he went off quite miserable that affairs at 
home should go on without his superintendence. In 
the evening, when he returned, he was in a fever of 
curiosity. 

“And the Abbe?” he asked, before he took off his hat. 

Marthe was sewing in her usual place, on the terrace. 

“The Abbe?” she repeated, in some surprise. “Oh! 
yes, the Abbe; I have not seen him, but I think he is all 
settled. Rose said they had brought in furniture.” 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


51 


“ What a woman you are ! ” cried Mouret. “ Don’t you 
know that this furniture is my security for the rent, and 
yet you did not take the trouble to look at it ! Rose ! 
Rose ! ” 

And when the cook appeared he said, “The furniture 
has come for the people above, it seems ?” 

“Yes, sir, in a small cart. I knew the cart: it belongs 
to Bergasse, the dealer near the market. But it was not 
very full. Madame Faujas walked by the side, and as 
they came up the hill she even helped the man who was 
pushing behind.” 

“You saw the furniture, I suppose, though?” 
“Certainly, sir; I stood at the door, and everything 
passed me, but I don’t think Madame Faujas wanted me 
there. There was an iron bed, a commode, two tables, four 
chairs — upon my word, that was all — and they were old, 
too. I would not have given thirty francs for the whole.” 
“But you should have told your mistress; we cannot 
let the rooms in this way, and must have an explanation 
with the Abbe Bourette — ” 

He spoke angrily, and was about going down the steps 
when Marthe said, in her soft, gentle voice : 

“Wait a moment, my dear. I forgot to tell you — they 
have paid six months in advance.” 

“Paid, have they?” he replied in a tone that was almost 
fierce. 

“Yes, the old lady came down and gave me this — ” 

She opened the drawer of her work-table and handed 
her husband seventy-five francs in silver pieces of one 


52 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


hundred sous each, carefully wrapped in newspaper. 
Mouret counted the money, muttering as he did so, “If 
they have paid, they, of course, are free to do as they 
please. No matter: they are queer people all the same. 
They certainly are not rich, though, and I can’t see the use 
of their behaving so oddly!” 

“I wanted to tell you, too,” continued Marthe, “that the 
old lady asked if I was willing to let her have the folding 
cot bed. I told her we never used it, and she could have 
it as long as she pleased.” 

“You did right : it is just as well to oblige them. But, 
as I told you before, the thing that annoys me about these 
Priests is, that no one ever knows what they are thinking 
or doing. Nevertheless, I suppose there are some honest 
men among them ! ” 

The money seemed to have disposed him to make this 
great concession. He laughed and talked, teased Serge 
about his book, “Mission in China,” which the boy was at 
that moment devouring, and pretended to feel no further 
interest in what was going on up-stairs. But Octave hap- 
pening to say that he had seen the Abbe Faujas coming 
out from the Bishop’s, Mouret could no longer keep up 
this air of indifference. At dessert he began to talk of the 
lodgers again, but with some little shame. Under his 
comfortable air of a retired merchant, he concealed a very 
quick wit, and had a large fund of good sense and great 
justice, which last qualities had gained him the respect of 
the whole community. 

“After all,” he said, as he was going to bed, “it is never 


THE CONQUEST OF PL ASS A NS. 


53 


well to meddle in the affairs of others. The Abbe can do 
as he pleases; it is none of onr affair. We won’t talk of 
these people any more, and I wash my hands of them from 
this day forth ! ” 

A week passed. Mouret resumed all his usual occupa- 
tions ; interfered with everything in the house, lectured 
the children all the morning, and late in the day went out 
on business, of which lie said nothing to his wife. He eat 
and drank with the regularity of a machine, or of a man 
to whom existence is a gentle succession of days like each 
other, without shocks or surprises of any kind. 

The house was as perfectly quiet as of old. Marthe sat 
at her little work-table on the terrace ; Desiree played with 
her doll at her side. The two boys came in with their 
usual clatter at their accustomed hour, and Rose, the cook, 
got angry in the same way and scolded, while the garden 
and the dwelling slept in their perfume and sunshine. 

“You see you made a very great mistake,” said Mouret 
to his wife, “in thinking if we let the upper floor, we should 
be in any way disturbed — no one would know there was 
any one there — the house is as quiet as it ever was.” 

As he spoke he looked up at the windows above, which 
Madame Faujas had hung with curtains, not a fold of 
which was awry. They suggested religious calm and 
cloister-like dimness; the windows were open, giving a 
glimpse of the high ceiling between the parted rigid folds 
of the curtains. But Mouret had never yet seen the hand 
that drew these curtains, nor heard the rattle of the rings 
on the pole. Not a sound of human habitation ever came 
to the persons on the terrace from above. 


54 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


The end of the first week came and Mouret had not 
seen the Abb6 again, and he began to feel fidgety and 
uneasy at the thought of this man living so near him, and 
he not being able to see even his shadow ! In spite of 
his efforts to appear indifferent, he began all his questions 
again. 

“Have not you seen him either ?” he said to his wife. 

“I thought I saw him come in yesterday, but it may 
have been his mother ; she always wears a black dress.” 

And as he continued to besiege her with questions she 
told him all she knew. 

“Rose says he goes out every day and stays out a long 
time ; as to his mother, she is as regular as clock-work ; 
she goes out every morning at seven with a large basket, 
in which she must bring home everything: charcoal, 
bread, wine, and meat, for no tradesman has ever been 
here. They are very polite, Rose says, and always speak 
to her when they meet, which is not very often. Gener- 
ally, she only hears them as they come down the stairs.” 

“They must have queer cooking up there!” murmured 
Mouret. 

Another evening Octave carelessly mentioned that he 
had seen Faujas going into the church — Saint-Saturnin. 
His father at once eagerly questioned him as to how the 
Priest looked — if the people seemed to notice him, and if 
he remained long in the church. 

“Oh! you ask me too much!” answered the youth, 
laughing; “I assure you he did not make much of a show 
— your Priest in his rusty soutane — when the sun shone 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


55 


full upon it. I noticed that he walked close to the houses 
in the shadow, and there his soutane looked much better. 
He held his head down and walked very fast. Two girls 
he met laughed in his face, and then he looked up quick 
enough. Didn’t he, Serge?” 

Serge had his little tale to tell; how that, several times, 
returning from college, he had been overtaken and joined 
by the Abbe, who did not seem to know a human being, 
and to be much disturbed by the sneers which he felt, rather 
than saw. 

“But is there much talk about him in the town?” asked 
Mouret. 

“No one has ever said a word to me,” answered Octave, 
carelessly. 

“Yes,” replied Serge; “they talk about him. Abbe 
Bourette’s nephew said to me that he was not very well 
received in the church, for that they never thought much 
of Priests who came from so far away. He looks dread- 
fully unhappy, too ; but I suppose he will be all right after 
a while, poor man ! ” 

Then Marthe told her sons to make no replies if they 
were asked any questions outside about the Abbe. 

“Why, yes, they can answer,” interposed Mouret. 
“They certainly can’t tell any harm of him!” 

From this time, without the smallest intention of doing 
any harm, he made absolute spies of these two lads. He 
bade them see where the Priest went when they met him, 
and also to find out all they could in the town about him. 
But this source of information was quickly exhausted. 


56 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


The brief gossip awakened by the arrival of a strange 
priest in the diocese soon died out. The town seemed to 
have taken compassion on “ the poor man,” and merely felt 
a sovereign contempt for the rusty soutane they saw glide 
quickly past in the shadow of the houses. 

The Priest always went by the same streets to the Cathe- 
dral, and Octave declared that he always trod on the self- 
same stones. 

Mouret also utilized Desiree, who never went out. He 
took her each evening to the foot of the garden, and made 
her chatter about all she had seen and all she had done 
during the day. He led her gradually to the people on 
the second floor. — 

“To-morrow,” he said, “when the window is open, see if 
you can’t throw your ball in, and then go up-stairs and ask 
for it.” 

The next day she threw the ball, but she had not reached 
the terrace steps before it was thrown back to her by some 
invisible hand. Her father, who had relied on the assist- 
ance of the child in renewing the relations which had 
ceased the first day, was quite in despair. He was con- 
vinced that the Abbe was determined to barricade himself 
against his landlord. This opposition only made his 
curiosity more ardent. He resumed his little gossips with 
the cook in the kitchen, to the intense annoyance of his 
wife, who reproached him with his lack of dignity, upon 
which he lost his temper utterly, and as he knew he was in 
the wrong, now interviewed Pose on the subject of the 
Fauj as only in secret. 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


57 


One morning Rose made a little sign to him. He fol- 
lowed her into the kitchen. 

“I have been watching for you to come down-stairs, sir, 
for more than an hour.” 

“Have you found out anything?” 

“You will see, sir. Last evening I talked for more than 
an hour with Madame Faujas.” 

Mouret was thrilled with joy. He took a seat on one 
of the worn-out straw chairs in the kitchen, over the back 
of which hung the wet towels and dish cloths used the 
evening before. 

“ Go on ! Go on, quick ! ” he said. 

“I was at the street door, bidding good-night to Mon- 
sieur RastoiFs servant, when Madame Faujas came down 
with a pail of dirty water. Instead of going up as soon 
as she had thrown it out, just as she always does, she stood 
there a moment. I at once saw that she wished to talk a 
little, so I said it had been a nice day — good for the grapes. 
She answered yes, but she said it, as if she did not much 
care about anything in the world. She put down her 
bucket, and seemed to be in no hurry. She leaned against 
the wall by my side.” 

“Well! what did she tell you?” asked Mouret, who was 
becoming very impatient. 

“Well, you see I was not so silly as to begin by asking 
her any questions, for she would have gone away at once, 
so I began to talk of something that I thought would inter- 
est her. The Cure of Saint-Saturnin passed at that 
moment, and I said how very ill he had been, and that I 


58 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


did not think he could possibly last long. Then I said 
they could never replace him at the Cathedral. She at 
once became all ears, and eagerly asked what Monsieur 
Campan’s ailment was. I then talked about our Bishop. 
She asked how old he was, and I told her about sixty, and 
that he was as mild as a lamb, and could be led by the nose 
as easily as possible. I told her that people said that Mon- 
sieur Fenil ruled the Bishop. This was too much for the 
old lady, and I honestly think she would have remained 
there until the next morning.” 

Mouret lifted his hands despairingly. 

“ Good heavens ! ” he exclaimed. “ So far as I can see, 
you did all the talking yourself. What did she say? 
That is what I want to know.” 

“ Wait a moment ; let me finish,” continued Rose, quietly. 

“To induce her to confide in me, I began to talk about 
ourselves. I told her that you were Frangois Mouret, a 
retired merchant from Marseilles, who, at fifteen years of 
age, had begun to make his fortune by selling almonds, 
oils and wines. I added that you preferred to spend your 
income at Plassans, a quiet town, where your wife’s family 
reside. I told her, too, that Madame was your cousin ; 
that you were forty and she thirty-seven ; that you lived 
very comfortably, but that you did not waste much time in 
society. In fact, I told her everything I knew about you. 
She was quite interested, and kept saying, ‘Yes! Yes!’ 
When I stopped to breathe she just nodded, as if she 
wanted me to go on, and we stood there until it was entirely 
dark, talking as cosily as possible.” 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


59 


Mouret started lip in a fury. 

“ Do you mean to say that is all ? ” he cried. “ She made 
you gabble for an hour, and never opened her lips ” 

“She said : c It is growing chilly/ and then took up her 
bucket and went in.” 

“Upon my word you are an absolute fool ! That old 
woman would buy and sell ten like you ! They must 
chuckle well, now that they know everything about us 
that they wish to know.” 

The old cook was none too amiable. She began to 
throw her pots and kettles about with considerable violence. 

“You know very well, sir, that it is not for me to 
answer you, but I wish you would go out of the kitchen. 
Madame will scold, but I did it to please you, sir, nothing 
else. I am sure I don’t care anything about these 
people. How could I make the old lady talk? I told her 
all our affairs, not because she was smart enough to make 
me, but because I chose to do it. If you want to know 
hers, you had best go and ask her. Perhaps you won’t be 
so much of a fool as I am, sir.” 

She had raised her voice, and Mouret thought it prudent 
to escape from the kitchen and shut the door, that his wife 
might not hear, but Rose opened it, and called out after 
him : 

“You understand that I won’t do anything of the kind 
again. You must find some one else to execute your 
miserable commissions.” 

Mouret was beaten ignominiously, and did not endure 

his defeat with much equanimity. 

4 


60 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


He walked off, muttering to himself that these people 
up-stairs were insignificant, and not worth troubling about, 
ana by degrees he conveyed this opinion to all his acquaint- 
ances. The Abbe Faujas was looked upon as a poor 
Priest without ambition, and one without any weight in the 
diocese ; he was regarded as ashamed of his poverty, which 
condemned him to the most disagreeable duties connected 
with his diocese, and as quite content to remain in obscurity. 
There was but one point on which any curiosity continued 
to be felt, and that was to know why he had come from 
Besangon to Plassans. But no one knew, or had any 
ground-work on which to build even a supposition. 
Mouret himself, who had watched his tenants merely as 
an amusement— as he would have played cards or bil- 
liards — -had begun to forget their existence, when suddenly 
a new event took place. 

One afternoon on his way home he beheld the Abb6 
Faujas in front of him. Mouret walked slowly and exam- 
ined him at his leisure. The Priest had been now under 
his roof a full month, and this was the first time he had 
seen him by daylight. The Abbe still wore his old 
soutane, and walked with his hat in his hand and his head 
bare, although the wind was sharp. The steep street was 
deserted, and every blind closed. Mouret stepped very 
lightly, lest the Priest should hear him and make his 
escape; but as they neared Monsieur RastoiPs house, a 
group of persons, coming all together from the Square, 
turned into the house. The Abbe Faujas stepped aside to 
avoid these gentlemen. He looked up at the door, and 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 61 

saw it open and close again. Then stopping abruptly, he 
turned and saw his landlord. 

“ I am very glad to see you, sir,” said the priest, with 
excessive politeness. “ I intended to call on you to-night. 
The day of the last rain the ceiling of my room was very 
wet, and I think the roof should be attended to.” 

Mouret stammered out that the necessary repairs should 
be made at once. They returned home together, and 
as they entered, Mouret asked when it would be convenient 
for him to examine the extent of the injury. 

“Now, if you choose,” answered the Abbe, “if it will 
not give you too much trouble.” 

Mouret went up-stairs behind his tenant, while Rose 
watched them from her kitchen door, astonishment written 
on every feature. 


62 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


CHAPTER IY. 

INTRODUCTIONS. 

M OURET readied the second floor breathless with 
delight at having so unexpectedly attained his 
object. Meanwhile the Abbe Faujas had slipped the key 
into the lock without Mouret seeing it in his hands or 
hearing a sound. The door swung slowly open as if on 
velvet hinges, and the Abbe courteously signed to Mouret 
to enter. 

The curtains at the two windows were so thick that the 
room was nearly dark, with the darkness of a mural cell. 

The chamber was immense, and the ceiling very high, 
with a clean but faded paper. Mouret ventured in, 
walking daintily over the floor which shone like ice, and 
whose chill he fancied he felt, through the soles of his 
boots. Pie glanced about stealthily, first at the curtainless 
iron bed, with the covering so tightly stretched that it 
looked almost as if it were of white stone. The commode 
in a corner at the other end of the room, a small table in 
the centre, with two chairs, one at each window, made up 
the furniture. Not a paper or book on the table; not an 
object on the commode ; not an article of clothing on the 
wall : everything was bare. Above the commode was a 
large crucifix of dark wood, the only object on the blank 
wall. 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


63 


“ Look in this corner, sir,” said the Abbe ; “ it is in 
that corner that the ceiling is stained.” 

But Mouret did not hurry. Although he did not see 
any of the remarkable things he had anticipated, the cham- 
ber had for him, esprit fort as he prided himself on being, 
a peculiar fascination — an especial odor. “ He scented 
the Priest,” he said to himself ; he should have known any- 
where that it was the room of a man who was different from 
other men — who blew out his candle when he changed his 
shirt. The thing that annoyed him was, that he could 
find no trifle lying about which would afford him any 
ground for speculation. The room was like the man : 
silent, cold, polished and impenetrable. He was sur- 
prised, however, to see no especial indication of poverty. 
On the contrary, he received much the same impression 
as on entering the richly furnished salon of the Prefect of 
Marseilles. The great crucifix seemed to fill it with its 
shadowy arms. 

He was compelled, however, to go toward the corner 
indicated by the Abbe Faujas, who pointed out the spot. 

“ It is slowly drying,” said the Priest, “ and is not as 
plain as it was.” 

Mouret stood on tiptoe, but could see nothing. The 
Priest pulled aside the curtain, and at last Mouret con- 
fessed that he perceived a slight discoloration. 

“It does not amount to much,” he said. 

“ No, not now ; but it will soon extend. The leak seems 
to be at the edge of the roof.” 

“Yes; at the edge of the roof,” answered Mouret, 


64 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


mechanically looking around the room, which with the 
full light of day streaming in was less solemn, but quite 
as reticent. 

“ We may be able to see the leak from the window/’ 
added the Abbe, throwing it open as he spoke. 

But Mouret begged him to take no further trouble, say- 
ing that the workmen would soon find the leak. 

“ You give me no trouble whatever, I do assure you/’ 
answered the Abbe, amiably. “ I know that landlords 
like to look about ; pray do so.” 

He smiled as he spoke, and a smile was not a frequent 
visitor on his face. 

The two leaned from the window, and looked up toward 
the gutter. 

“Ah ! ” said the Priest, “ I see the trouble. The 
gutters are separated— in fact, I think one is broken.” 

“I dare say,” answered Mouret, carelessly; “but the 
mason will attend to it — the mason or some other work- 
man.” 

The Abbe said no more about repairs, but lingered at 
the window looking down at the garden. Mouret, out of 
politeness, did the same. He was hesitating as to how to 
get away when the Abbe said : 

“ You have a charming garden, sir.” 

“Nothing wonderful, sir; nothing wonderful. I cut 
down several fine trees, as nothing would grow in 
their shadow. I was obliged to think of utility, you see, 
and this corner provides us with vegetables the whole 
season.” 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


65 


The Abbe was quite astonished, and asked several 
questions. The garden was one of those old country gar- 
dens with grape-arbors, and divided in four squares by 
paths set on either side with box. In the centre was a 
small basin without water. One square was reserved for 
flowers. The other three had fruit trees at their corners, 
and were planted with vegetables — magnificent cabbages, 
and superb salads. The alleys were covered with yellow 
sand most carefully rolled and kept. 

“ It is a little Paradise,” said the Abbe. 

“It has many inconveniences,” answered Mouret, 
struggling against any demonstration of the lively satis- 
faction he felt in hearing his possession so highly praised. 
“For example, the gardens are, so to speak, terraced. 
That is to say, that of Monsieur Rastoil is lower than 
mine — mine lower than the Prefect’s — consequently the 
water and rain make sad havoc at times. Then, too, the 
servants at the Prefect’s overlook my garden entirely ; 
to be sure, I in my turn overlook Monsieur Rastoil’s — a 
poor compensation, however, as I never trouble myself 
about my neighbors.” 

The Priest listened sympathetically, but asked no ques- 
tion. He followed the explanations of his landlord, 
which were emphasized by waves of the hand and various 
gestures. 

“And there is another annoyance,” continued the latter, 
pointing to a lane running at the foot of the garden. 

“You see that alley, between the two walls. All these 
houses have their little doors opening upon it, and their 


66 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


mysterious comings and goings. As I have children, I 
just nailed up my door with good stout nails.” 

He winked as he looked at the Abbe, hoping possibly 
that he would be asked what these mysterious comings 
and goings were. But the Abbe did not speak; he looked 
down on the alley — Chevelotte’s alley, as his landlord 
called it— without the smallest curiosity, and then turned 
his eyes with more interest on Mouret’s own garden. 
Below, on the terrace, sat Marthe, as usual, with her 
work-basket. She had looked up quickly on hearing 
their voices, and, although astonished at seeing her hus- 
band with the Priest at the window above, went on with 
her work, paying no further attention to them. 

Mouret raised his voice, with unconscious boastfulness, 
happy to show that he had at last penetrated the room 
hitherto so obstinately closed to him. And the Priest’s 
calm eyes rested upon her — on the woman of whom he 
could see nothing, except her bowed head, and the heavy 
masses of her black hair. 

There was a long silence. The Abbe Faujas did not 
seem inclined to leave the window. Pie was now study- 
ing the next garden, which was Monsieur Rastoil’s, and 
laid out a l’Anglaise, with narrow paths and hedges, 
greensward and rustic baskets. At the end there was a 
group of trees, under which stood a table and chairs. 

“Monsieur Rastoil is very rich,” said Mouret, who had 
followed the direction of the Abbe’s eyes. “His garden 
costs him a pretty penny; that fountain, which you can 
just see beyond the trees, cost him over three hundred 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


67 


francs. And not a vegetable does he raise — nothing but 
flowers. At one time the ladies thought of having the 
fruit-trees cut down, which would have been an absolute 
murder, for the pears are superb. But, then, one is quite 
right to arrange one’s garden as one likes, if one has the 
means.” 

And as the Abbe was still silent, Mouret turned toward 
him : 

“ You have seen Monsieur Rastoil, have you not? He 
walks every morning under the trees, from eight to nine 
o’clock — a stout man, not very tall, bald, cleanly shaven, 
and a head as round as a ball. He is sixty in August, 
and has been twenty years President of our Civil Court. 
Pie is said to be an excellent man, but I do not know him 
very well myself, only to say, ‘How do you do/ you 
know.” 

He stopped as he saw several persons come down the 
steps of the next house and go toward the seats under the 
trees. 

“Oh! yes, to be sure, it is Tuesday to-day, and they 
have dinner company at the Rastoils’.” 

The Abbe started and leaned out a little, that he might 
see better. Two Priests walking at the side of two tall 
girls seemed to interest him particularly. 

“ Do you know those gentlemen?” asked Mouret. And 
in reply to Faujas’ vague gesture, Mouret continued : 

“They were crossing the street just as I met you. The 
tall one, the youngest, who is walking between the Rastoil 
young ladies, is the Abbe Surin, the Bishop’s Secretary, a 


68 THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 

very nice fellow, I am told. I have seen him several 
times this summer, playing battledore and shuttlecock 
with the young ladies. The old man is one of our most 
important vicars — the Abbe Fenil. He manages the 
Seminary — a terrible man he is, too; as keen as a sword. 
I wish he would turn round, so that you can see his eyes. 
It is very strange that you do not know these gentlemen.” 

“ I go out so little,” answered the Abbe. “ I go 
nowhere in the town.” 

“ You are very wrong, then, for you must find it very 
dull sometimes. Upon my word, sir, you can’t have 
much curiosity, either. Think of you having been here a 
month, and not yet found out that Monsieur Rastoil gives 
a dinner every Tuesday. This very window ought to 
have told you as much as that.” 

Mouret laughed, and then continued in a confidential 
tone : 

“ You see the tall old man with Madame Rastoil — that 
thin one, I mean — the one with the wide-brimmed hat. 
That is Monsieur de Bourden, the former Prefect de la 
Drome — a Prefect whom the Revolution of 1848 put on 
his feet. And that is Monsieur Maffre — a Judge — that 
one I mean, with white hair and protuberant eyes. And 
you don’t know him either? Now that is inexcusable, 
for he is an honorary canon of Saint-Saturnin. Betweeii 
ourselves, he is believed to have killed his wife by his 
severity and avarice.” 

He checked himself, looked the Abbe full in the face 
and said, abruptly: 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


69 


“ I beg your pardon, sir, but I am not a religious man. 
I make no claim to being one.” 

The Abbe repeated his favorite gesture — a vague wave 
of the hand — that gesture which was an answer to every- 
thing, and dispensed with the necessity of any definite 
reply. 

“No, I am not a religious man,” repeated Mouret. 
“But each man must look out for himself, I suppose. 
Now at the Rastoils’ they are very much in earnest. You 
must have seen the mother and daughter at Saint-Sat urnin. 
Poor girls! the eldest is twenty-six — her name is Angeline, 
and Aurelie is twenty-four. They are very plain — bad 
complexions — cross expressions. They want to marry the 
eldest first, and the end will be that they won’t marry 
either. As to the mother, that fat little woman, who 
walks along as gentle as a lamb, it is said that she makes 
Rastoil toe the mark.” 

He winked again, which was a way he had when he 
made a remark that was a little hazardous. The Abbe 
dropped his eyes; then, as the other ceased to speak, he 
lifted them and looked at the party as they settled them- 
selves under the trees, around the table. 

Mouret resumed his explanations: 

“They will stay there until dinner; they always do the 
same thing every Tuesday. This Abbe Surin has much 
success; hear him laughing now with Mademoiselle 
Aurelie. Ah ! the Vicar sees us. Heavens ! what eyes he 
has ! He is not over fond of me, because I had a lawsuit 
with one of his connections. Where can the Abbe Bourette 


70 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


be to-day? — he never misses a Tuesday. He must be ill. 
You know him — a most worthy man! ” 

But the Abbe was not listening. His eyes had met 
those of the Abbe Fenil; he did not flinch nor turn away 
his head, but submitted to the Vicar’s lengthy scrutiny 
with perfect coolness. He settled himself a little more 
squarely at the window, and his eyes seemed to expand. 

“Here come the young men of the party ! ” said Mouret, 
eagerly. “The first one is young Rastoil, the other two 
are the sons of the Judge, who are still at college. I 
wonder why my two boys are not at home ! ” 

At this moment Octave and Serge appeared on the ter- 
race; they leaned on the railing and were teasing Desiree, 
who was sitting by her mother. When the lads saw their 
father on the upper floor, they lowered their voices and 
seemed to be trying to conceal their amusement. 

“My little family,” murmured Mouret, with complacent 
pomposity, “are quite content among themselves; we stay 
at home and never receive any company. Our garden 
may be a Paradise, but it is one that is always closed, so I 
defy the devil to tempt us in it.” 

He laughed again as he said this. The Abb6 was look- 
ing down upon the terrace and at his landlord’s family. 
He then slowly turned his eyes on the old garden with the 
vegetable beds and its box-bordered walks, and thence to 
the more pretentious grounds of Monsieur Rastoil ; from 
there, as if instituting a comparison, he glanced at the 
Prefect’s. There was only a large lawn, a carpet of turf 
with gentle undulations, while a few tall chestnut trees 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


71 


at the end gave quite the look of a park to this narrow bit 
of ground shut in between the houses. 

The Abbe looked at the tall chestnut trees. 

“ Those gardens are certainly very gay, for I see 
people over there as well as in the other,” he said 
quietly. 

“Oh, yes, you will see them there every afternoon. They 
are the intimate friends of Monsieur Pequeur des Saulaies, 
our sub-Prefect. They meet every evening, too, around 
the basin you can’t see, over there on the left. Ah ! Mon- 
sieur de Condamin has returned. That old gentleman, so 
upright and well preserved, has the supervision of our 
rivers and forests. You can meet him any time, and 
always as neat as a pin. He is not a native of this 
part of the country, and married lately a very young 
woman. But that is none of my business, I am happy 
to say.” 

He leaned out of the window, as he spoke, having heard 
Desiree laugh, but the Abbe, with a faint flush on his 
sallow cheek, brought him back to the subject. 

“Is that the sub-Prefect?” he asked, “that stout man 
with the white cravat?” 

This question amused Mouret extremely. 

“By no means; Monsieur Pequeur des Saulaies is not 
over forty — he is tall, handsome, and very distinguished- 
looking. The stout gentleman is Dr. Porquier, the first 
physician in Plassans. Now look at those two on the 
bench with their backs toward us. They are Judge 
Paloque and his wife — their menage is about the 


72 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


worst in town — no one knows whose conduct is the most 
outrageous, his own, or his wife’s — ” 

And Mouret laughed ; he struck his hand gayly on the 
window sill — 

“I never can see all these people,” he said, “ without 
laughing. You feel no interest in politics, my dear Abbe, 
or I could make you laugh too. I pass for a Republican. 
I run about the country, talk with the peasants, and my 
name is so well known among them that there has been 
some talk of electing me to some office. Now, then, here 
am I between the two : on my right at the Rastoils’, we have 
the cream of the Legitimists, and on the left at the sub- 
Prefect’s, the hot blood of the Empire ! It is a great joke, 
on my life, it is! Just to think of my poor old peaceful 
garden set down between these two inimical camps. I am 
always expecting them to throw stones at each other over 
my walls. You see, their stones might fall into my 
• 

Mouret was enchanted at his own witticism. He drew 
nearer to the Abbe, and said, in the tone of one gossip 
whispering to another, “Plassans is a very curious place 
from a political point of view. The Coup d’Etat succeeded 
here because the town is conservative. But, it is none the 
less Legitimist and Orleanist ; so much so, that the very 
first day of the Empire it wished to dictate conditions. 
As they were not listened to, it passed over to the Oppo- 
sition — yes, sir, to the Opposition ! Last year we nominated 
as Deputy the Marquis de Langrifort, an old gentleman of 
somewhat mediocre intelligence, but he was elected all the 



THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


73 


same. Ah ! there is the Prefect, sir ; he is with the 
Mayor.” 

The Abbe looked out eagerly : the Prefect was smiling 
under his waxed moustache ; his costume was faultless ; 
his air that of a military man combined with a diplomatist. 
The Mayor was explaining something with considerable 
vehemence. He was small, with rounded shoulders and 
the features of a Punch. 

“ Monsieur Pequeur des Saulaies,” continued Mouret, 
“ nearly died of it; he thought the election of the official 
candidate quite secure. I was very much amused. The 
evening of the election, that garden was as black as a cem- 
etery, while the Pastors’ was as gay as possible. Colored 
lanterns on the trees and everything triumphant. Yes, I 
see strange things here.” 

He checked himself as if he was determined to say no 
more, but the temptation to talk was too great. 

“Now,” he resumed, “I should like to know what they 
are planning there. They will never elect their candidate. 
I am told that were they to succeed, Monsieur Pequeur des 
Saulaies would be made full Prefect, for his present title 
is only one of courtesy ; he is really sub-Prefect. They 
are trying to oust the Marquis and conquer Plassans ; the 
question is, how are they going to do it ! ” 

He looked around at the Abbe, as he spoke. The priest’s 
face was so keenly attentive, his eyes so bright and eager, 
that Mouret’s lips closed. All his natural prudence awoke — 
and he felt that he had said far too much. He added in a 
vexed sort of way : 


74 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


“After all, I know nothing about it. One hears so 
much that is ridiculous. I only want to live peaceably by 
myself.” 

He wanted to hurry away at once, but he dared not 
take too abrupt a departure after the familiar way in which 
he had chatted. He began to have a shrewd suspicion, 
that if one of the two was laughing at the other, that it 
was not himself who played the first role. The Abbe con- 
tinued to survey the two gardens with imperturbable calm, 
and made not the smallest attempt to induce Mouret to 
continue, while the latter wondered why on earth his wife 
or one of his children was not inspired with the sudden 
thought of calling to him. He was quite relieved when 
he saw Rose appear on the terrace. 

“ Did you not know, sir,” she called aloud, “ that soup 
has been on the table for fifteen minutes?” 

“ Very good, Rose,” he answered, “ I am coming.” 

He left the window with a hasty apology. The chill of 
the room, which he had forgotten, struck him between the 
shoulders, and completed his discomfiture. 

It seemed to him a huge confessional, with its terrible 
black crucifix. As the Abbe Faujas took leave of him 
with a silent bow, Mouret could not endure this sudden 
break of their conversation, and he said, looking up to the 
ceiling : 

“ Then it is really in that corner ? ” 

“ What do you mean ? ” asked the Abbe, in surprise. 

“ The spot you were talking about.” 

The Priest could not conceal a smile, as he again made 
an effort to point out the stain to his landlord. 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


75 


“ Oh ! to be sure, I see it now ! ” was the reply of the 
latter. “All right; I will send for the workmen to- 
morrow.” 

He went out of the room. He was still on the finding 
when the door closed noiselessly upon him. The silence 
of the staircase irritated him intensely. He muttered as 
he went down : 

“ Confound that man ! He never asks a question, and 
yet he makes one tell him everything ! 79 

5 


76 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


CHAPTER Y. 
f£licit£ again! 

T HE next day, old Madame Rougon, the mother of 
Marthe, came to call at the Mourets’. This was a 
great event, as there had been a vast deal of disturbance 
between the son-in-law and his wife’s parents, especially 
since the election of the Marquis de Langrifort — the old 
people accusing their son-in-law of having insured his 
success by his influence among the peasants. 

Marthe was in the habit of going to her parents there- 
fore, without her husband. Her mother, “that black- 
amoor of a Felicity,” as she was called, was, at sixty-six, 
as slender and lively as a young girl. She always wore 
silk dresses, with a multiplicity of flounces, and particularly 
affected yellow and chestnut-brown. 

When she appeared on the day of which we write, only 
Marthe and Mouret were in the dining-room. 

“ Upon my word !” exclaimed the latter, “it is certainly 
your mother ! What can she want ? She has not been 
here for a month. It is some new manoeuvre.” 

The Rougons, whose clerk he had been before his mar- 
riage, had always been regarded by him with the greatest 
distrust, which they returned by a very hearty dislike 
and envy, detesting in him the merchant who had met 
with success and prosperity. When their son-in-law said : 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 77 

“I am indebted only to myself and to honest toil for my 
fortune,” they compressed their lips, knowing perfectly well 
that he thus accused them of having made theirs in a way 
that they dared not acknowledge. 

Felicite, notwithstanding her beautiful house on the 
Square, envied the Mourets their tranquil home, with the 
fierce jealousy of an unsuccessful tradeswoman who knows 
that her prosperity comes not from her careful savings. 

Felicite kissed Marthe on her forehead, as if she were 
still sixteen, and then extended her hand to Mouret. The 
two always talked when they met, with a certain acrid good 
nature. 

"Well, Revolutionist,” she said, with a smile; "the gen- 
darmes have not yet come to carry you off, it seems!” 
"Not yet,” he answered, with equal gayety. "They are 
waiting for orders from your husband.” 

"Upon my word, that is a nice thing for you to say!” 
answered Felicity, with flashing eyes. 

Marthe cast an imploring glance at Mouret. He really 
had gone too far. But he was well started, and continued : 
"I really beg your pardon for receiving you in the 
dining-room. Allow me to lead you to the salon.” 

This was one of his habitual pleasantries. He always 
affected the greatest ceremony when his mother-in-law en- 
tered his house. In vain did Marthe declare that they were 
very well where they were. Nothing would do but that 
she and her mother must follow him to the salon. He gave 
himself a great deal of trouble, opened blinds, rearranged 
curtains, and pulled arm-chairs from remote corners into 
the centre of the room. 


78 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


Tlie salon, which was rarely entered, was a large, de- 
serted-looking room, with the furniture draped in coverings 
which, originally white, were now yellowed by the damp- 
ness from the garden. 

u It is really disgraceful/’ muttered Mouret, as he wiped 
the dust from a small table, “ that Rose should be so care- 
less.” 

And turning toward his mother-in-law, he said in a tone 
whose irony was but slightly veiled : 

“ Pray excuse us for receiving you in so poor a dwelling, 
but you know that everybody cannot be rich.” 

Felicite was absolutely choking. She looked at Mouret 
fixedly for a moment, then with a strong effort she dropped 
her eyes slowly : when she lifted them again she said in a 
very amiable tone : 

“I had just been to call on Madame de Condamin, and 
I thought I would come in and see how you all were. 
The children are well, I trust; and you, too, my dear 
Mouret ? ” 

“ Yes, we are all well,” he answered, quite taken aback 
by this extraordinary amiability. 

The old lady allowed him no time to resume the hostile 
basis on which he had begun their interview. She ques- 
tioned Marthe affectionately in regard to innumerable 
trifles, and scolded her son-in-law for not sending the chil- 
dren oftener to see her. They gave her so much pleasure, 
she added. 

“ By the way,” she said, carelessly, “ this is October ; I 
shall resume my day very soon, Thursdays, as usual. I 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


79 


rely on your aid, my dear Martlie. And you, too, Mouret ; 
shall I not see you sometimes ? ” 

Mouret, who was considerably mystified by the dulcet 
words and manner of his mother-in-law, was utterly upset 
by this last attack. He finally answered, however : 

“ You know that I can’t go to your house. You receive 
a crowd of people who would be only too glad to be dis- 
agreeable to me. Then, too, I don’t care to have anything 
to do with politics.” 

“ What, one would think my salon was a club-room ! ” ex- 
claimed Felicite. “But you are entirely mistaken. If 
politics are talked in my salon, it is in the corner. The 
whole town knows that my house is a very agreeable one. 
As for politics, I had enough of them once before in my 
life, and I liked them none too well.” 

“ You receive all that herd from the Prefect’s,” murmured 
Mouret, sulkily. 

“ That herd from the Prefect’s, did you say? Undoubt- 
edly, I receive those gentlemen. At the same time, Mon- 
sieur Pequeur des Saulaies has been little at our house this 
winter. My husband displeased him at the time of the 
election. Pie allowed himself to be made a perfect tool 
of, you know, and my husband said as much. His friends 
are very nice persons; Monsieur Delangre is goodness itself, 
so is De Condamin, and surely you have nothing to say 
against Dr. Porquier ! ” 

Mouret shrugged his shoulders. 

“ Besides,” she continued, with satirical emphasis on her 
words, “ I also receive the herd from Monsieur Rastoil’s. 


80 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


You know that we are by no means exclusive, and all 
opinions are welcome under our roof, for I should not have 
four cats if I waited until I found them all thinking alike. 
We like cleverness wherever we can find it, and we aspire 
to have at our soirees all the distinguished talent of Plas- 
sans. My salon is neutral ground ; remember that, Mou- 
ret. Neutral ground is precisely what I mean ! ” 

She had become quite animated as she spoke, for each 
time that this subject was alluded to, she lost her temper. 
Her salon was her crowning glory : as she said, she wished 
to reign there, not as the representative of any party, but 
as a woman of the world. It is true that certain shrewd 
persons hinted that she obeyed certain tactics of concilia- 
tion advised by her son Eugene, the Minister who charged 
her to personify at Plassans, the sweetness and amiabili- 
ties of the Empire. 

“ You can call them what you please,” growled Mouret; 
“ but your intimates are knaves and fools mostly, whether 
they belong to the Rastoil herd or to that of the Prefect. 
This is my frank opinion. I thank you for your invita- 
tion, but it would put me out of my regular ways. I 
always go to bed early.” 

Felicit6 rose and turned her back on Mouret, as she 
said to her daughter : 

“I can rely on you, my dear?” 

“ Of course,” answered Marthe, eager to soften the bru- 
tality of her husband’s refusal. 

The old lady was about to depart, but delayed to embrace 
Desiree, as she said. The child was in the garden; the old 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


81 


lady would not allow her to be summoned, but went her- 
self down the terrace steps, although they were still wet 
with the rain that had fallen in the early morning. She 
overwhelmed the half-frightened child with caresses. 
Then glancing at the curtained windows of the upper floor, 
she said, carelessly : 

“Ah ! to be sure ; you have let those rooms, have you 
not? Yes, to a Priest, I remember. What sort of a man 
might this Priest be?” 

Mouret watched her closely. His suspicions were 
aroused, and he wondered if she had not come on account 
of the Abbe Faujas. 

“I really know nothing about him,” he answered, still 
with his eyes fixed upon her, “ but I expect you to give 
me all necessary information.” 

“ I ! ” she cried, in apparent amazement. “ I never laid 
eyes on him — I merely know that he is an assistant at 
Saint-Saturnin. Father Bourette told me that much, and 
that reminds me I ought to ask him to my Thursdays ; 
he would meet the Director of the Seminary and also the 
Bishop’s Secretary.” 

Then turning to Marthe, she added: 

“ I hardly know about it, but I wish when you see your 
lodger you would sound him, and discover if an invitation 
would be agreeable to him.” 

“ We never see him,” Mouret answered, hastily. “ He 
comes in and goes out without opening his lips. But it is 
none of my business.” 

And he continued to survey Fclicite with a suspicious 


82 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


air. She certainly knew more than she chose to tell of the 
Abb6 Faujas, but she did not flinch under her son-in-law’s 
scrutiny. 

“After all,” she said, carelessly, “ there is no hurry. If 
I find that he is desirable, I can always invite him. 
Good-bye.” 

She ascended the steps as she spoke, and at the same 
moment an old man appeared in the doorway. He wore 
a coat and pantaloons of dark blue, with a fur cap pulled 
down over his eyes, and held a whip in his hand. 

“Ah! there conies Uncle Macquart!” cried Mouret, 
with a quick glance at his mother-in-law. 

Felicite shrugged her shoulders with an air of excessive 
annoyance. Macquart, Rougon’s illegitimate brother, had 
returned to France after having been compromised by the 
insurrections in the country in 1851. Since his return 
from Piedmont, he lived the comfortable life of a retired 
tradesman. He had bought, but no one knew with what 
money, a small house in the village of Tulettes, about 
three leagues from Plassans. By degrees he had furnished 
it, and had finally succeeded in purchasing a horse and 
carriole, so that he was always to be seen on the highways 
with his pipe in his mouth, revelling in the hot sun. 
Rougon’s enemies said that the two brothers had done 
some evil deed together, and that Pierre Rougon supported 
Antoine Macquart. 

“Good-morning, uncle,” said Mouret, with great affec- 
tation of cordiality; “you have come to make us a little 
visit, I trust?” 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


83 


“Why, of course,” answered Macquart, in a jolly tone; 
“you know each time I come to Plassans I call on you. 
By Jove! Felicite, is that you? I did not expect to see 
you here ; I came after Rougon, though. I had something 
to say to him — ” 

“He is at home,” she answered, eagerly interrupting 
him; “you can see him there.” 

“ Yes, I have seen him,” the uncle continued, quietly. 
“We had our little talk— Rougon is a good fellow after 
all!” 

He laughed; and while Felicite quivered with anxiety, 
he went on in his drawling tones : 

“ Mouret, my boy ! I brought you two rabbits: they are 
in a basket which I handed to Rose. I brought two for 
Rougon also. You will find them at your house, F6licit6: 
they are as fat as butter ; I fattened them for you, for I 
like to make little presents.” 

Felicite was deadly pale; and Mouret looked from one 
to the other with a quiet smile. She was anxious to go, 
but she dared not leave Macquart behind. 

“Thanks, uncle,” said Mouret. “Your prunes were 
delicious. Come in and have some wine.” 

“ That is an offer I never refuse.” 

Rose brought a glass of wine, which Macquart drank as 
he sat on the railing of the terrace. 

“ That is good ! ” he said, smacking his lips ; “ it came 
from Saint Eutrope. No one can deceive me about 
wine ; ” and he nodded his head wisely. 

Then Mouret in a pointed tone said : 


84 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


“And how are they at Tulettes ? ” 

Macquart looked around at all of the little group, and 
as he put down his glass said, carelessly : 

“Well enough, I fancy. I heard from there yesterday. 
She is just the same.” 

Felicite turned away her head. Mouret had touched 
one of the unhealed family wounds in alluding to the 
mother of Rougon and Macquart, who had been mad for 
some years, and in the lunatic asylum at Tulettes. Mac- 
quart’s little place was close by, and it seemed as if the 
Rougons had put the old man there to watch the insane 
woman. 

“ It is getting late,” said Macquart at last. “ Look 
here, Mouret, when are you coming to see me as you 
promised ? ” 

“ I shall come, uncle ; I shall come !” 

“ That is not enough. I want you all. I am lonely 
there at times.” 

Then turning to Felicite he said : 

“Tell Rougon I expect him as well, and you too. The 
old mother near by need not hinder you. She is well 
taken care of — I look out for that. I can give you such 
wine as you never tasted before.” 

He went toward the door as he spoke. Felicite fol- 
lowed him so closely that she had the air of pushing him 
out. The rest accompanied them into the street. He 
untied his horse, and just then the Abbe passed with a 
slight bow. He went by so swiftly and noiselessly that 
he was like a shadow. Felicite turned and looked after 
him until he ascended the stairs. 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


85 


Macquart shook his head, and muttered : 

“ What, my boy, do you keep Priests under your roof ? 
They bring bad luck, my boy. Never trust the sou- 
tanes! This man has a singular eye, too !” 

He took his seat in his carriole, and drove down the 
street, whistling gently as he went. Mouret watched him 
until his round shoulders and fur cap had disappeared 
around a corner, and when he turned toward his mother- 
in-law again he heard her say: 

“ No ; I prefer that it should come from you : it would 
be less ceremonious. If it comes in your way to speak to 
him, I should like to have you do so.” 

She felt that Mouret was looking at her, and she hastily 
completed her sentence, kissed Desiree and hurried away, 
with a lingering glance to assure herself that Macquart 
had not returned to chatter about her and her affairs. 

“ You know,” said Mouret to his wife, “that I have 
absolutely forbidden you to have anything to do with 
your mother’s performances. What the deuce does she 
want of this Abbe ? She never would have invited him 
if she had not something in view. That man came here 
for something, I can see that.” 

Marthe had returned to her eternal mending. He 
moved about her restlessly, and then burst out again : 

“ They amuse me — that old Macquart and your mother. 
Don’t they hate each other? She was choking all the 
time she was here. She behaves always, exactly as if she 
were in deadly fear, that he would tell things which she 
did not want known, and I imagine if he opened his lips 


86 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


that he could reveal some strange things. But I don’t 
want to hear them. I don’t care to stir up that dirty water. 
My father was right when he said my mother’s family — 
these Rougons and Macquarts — were not worth the rope 
to hang them. I am of their blood as well as you, so you 
need not be offended at what I say. I say it because it is 
true. They have made their fortune, but they are not 
scrubbed clean for all that ! ” 

Mouret then went off to the parade-ground, where he 
met several friends, and in their society forgot the great 
interest he felt in the Abbe Faujas. 

At the end of a week he had become a little disgusted 
with the Priest, as he was shrewd enough to see that the 
latter only wanted to learn more of the neighborhood from 
him. 

“ No,” he muttered, as he looked up at the close-drawn 
curtains; “no; you will learn no more from me!” 

The idea that he was defeating the Abbe’s intentions 
gave him infinite pleasure, and he took care to fall into no 
snare. But one night, as he was coming home, he per- 
ceived the Abbe Faujas and the Abbe Bourette standing, 
deep in conversation, near the door of Monsieur Rastoil. 

Mouret quietly slipped into a corner. The Priests 
talked together for some fifteen minutes, separated and 
then returned again. Mouret was certain that Bourette 
was trying to persuade his fellow-Priest to go with him to 
the President’s, but Faujas refused impatiently. It was 
Tuesday, and the dinner hour. Finally Bourette entered 
Rastoil’s house alone, and Faujas glided home. Mouret 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


87 


was altogether mystified. Why would not the Abb6 go 
to Monsieur Rastoil’s? All the church dined there. 
Every Priest in Plassans enjoyed that garden and fountain. 
It was really very extraordinary. 

Mouret went into the garden and looked up at his sec- 
ond floor. He saw one of the curtains move. Yes, Faujas 
was looking down into the Rastoil gardens. An imper- 
ceptible change of the curtains showed him that these in- 
vestigations were not confined to one neighbor, but that he 
was also examining the Prefect’s territory. 

The next day, as he was going out, Rose informed him 
that the Abbe Bourette had just gone up-stairs. He conse- 
quently took up a post of observation in the dining-room, 
pretending to be looking for something, and when Marthe 
asked what it was, he replied that he wanted a certain 
paper before he could go out. He at last heard a move- 
ment of chairs and went out into the vestibule, where he 
lingered until the Abbe Bourette appeared. 

“You here, sir!” he exclaimed. “I am really delighted 
to have met you. You are going to the church ? Luck 
is certainly with me to-day, for that is precisely my way, 
too. We will go together, if it will not disturb you.” 

The Abb6 replied that he was delighted, and the two 
walked slowly up the street. The Abbe Bourette was a 
stout man with large, honest blue eyes ; his wide silk belt 
was tightly drawn about his rotund form, and he walked 
with his head a little thrown back, his arms loosely hang- 
ing, and rather a slouching gait. 

“You have been to see my tenant, then,” said Mouret, 
abruptly. “I must thank you for sending him to me — ” 


88 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


“Yes,” murmured the Priest, “he is an excellent 
man — ” 

“Never was there so quiet a one. We should never 
know there was a stranger under our roof; and he is so 
polite withal. I am told that he is regarded as a bright 
and shining light in the diocese.” 

They were crossing the Square, and Mouret turned and 
looked his companion full in the face as he said this. 

The Abbe Bourette lifted his eyebrows in astonishment. 

“Really?” he said. 

“So I am told. You know that our Bishop has sharp 
eyes, and I think the new-comer is keeping in the back- 
ground for the present in order not to arouse jealousy.” 

The Abbe answered calmly : 

“You surprise me. Faujas is a simple man, with much 
humility — too much, I may say. He voluntarily performs 
in the church certain duties which we usually delegate to 
subordinates. He may be a saint, but he is not politic. 
He rarely or never calls on Monseigneur, and has been 
especially cool toward Monsieur Fenil, although I ex- 
plained to him that his good will was essential, if he wished 
to be well received at the Bishop’s. I don’t think he un- 
derstood me in the least. I fancy that he is not over quick 
in such matters. And then, too, he goes continually to 
the Abbe Campan, whom I fear we are about to lose, for 
he has now been confined to his bed for a fortnight. 
Campan never was on good terms with Fenil, and Faujas 
ought to have discovered this of himself, even if he has 
just come from Besangon.” 


THE CONQUEST OF PL ASS A NS. 


89 


He became quite animated as he spoke. 

“No,” he continued, “no, my dear sir, you have been 
entirely misinformed ; Faujas is as innocent as a babe un- 
born. I have no especial ambition, and I am fond of 
Campan, who has a heart of gold, but all the same I go to 
see him secretly. He himself said to me, ‘ Bourette, old 
friend, I have not long to live ; but if you wish to be Cure 
after me, you must not be seen ringing at my door too 
often. Come after dark and knock three times : my sister 
will hear you/ You see, I now wait until night. There 
is no use in swimming against the current: it does not 
pay ! ” 

He folded his arms across his fat stomach and moved 
ponderously on, murmuring in a tearful voice : 

“Poor Campan ! Poor Campan — !” 

Mouret could not make it out, but he said, after a mo- 
ment’s silence : 

“I heard this in such a way that I believed it.” 

“Well! it is not true!” cried the priest. “Monsieur 
has no future whatever. Then, too, you know that I dine 
regularly every Tuesday at the President’s. Last week he 
asked me to bring Faujas with me. And what do you 
think Faujas did? He actually refused the invitation, 
refused it squarely, my dear sir ! I told him that he would 
end with quarrelling with all these people, but he would 
not listen. I think, too, he said that he had no intention 
of committing himself by accepting a dinner of this kind ! 
Good Heavens! Committing himself !” 

The Abb6 laughed ; they had by this time reached the 
side door of the church. He stood still. 


90 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


“Was there ever anything so childish?” he continued. 
“ The idea of a dinner at the Rastoils’ compromising him ! 
Your mother-in-law, Madame Rougon, intrusted me yes- 
terday with an invitation for Faujas. I told her frankly 
that it would not be well received, however.” 

Mouret pricked up his ears. 

“Ah ! my mother-in-law wished you to ask him to her 
house?” 

“Yes, she came to the Sacristy to ask me, and I agreed 
to see him to-day. I was sure he would refuse — ” 

“And he did ?” 

✓ 

“No ! to my great surprise, he accepted.” 

Mouret’s lips parted, and then were firmly closed again. 
The Priest assumed a well-satisfied air. 

“To be sure, I managed it very skilfully. I explained 
to Faujas just your mother’s position here, and he talked 
of his love of seclusion. Finally I made use of a favorite 
phrase of hers, and called her salon neutral ground. This 
seemed to strike him, and he consented — gave a distinct 
acceptance for to-morrow. I must write a line to the 
good lady, and announce our victory ! ” 

He rolled his big blue eyes about for a moment, and 
then muttered: 

“Rastoil will be furious, but I am not to blame. Au 
revoir, my dear Mouret, au revoir ; present my compli- 
ments to Madame.” 

And he entered the church, the double door closing 
softly behind him. Mouret shrugged his shoulders. 

“ What a chatterer ! ” he muttered. “ He talks forever, 


THE CONQUEST OF PL ASS A NS. 


91 


and says nothing, after all. So, then, Faujas will go to 
the old lady’s to-morrow. I wish to Heaven I had not 
quarrelled with that old fool of a Ilougon ! ” 

That night, as he was going to bed, he said to his wife, 
carelessly : 

“Are you going to your mother’s to-morrow?’’ 

“No,” answered Marthe, “I can’t spare the time. I 
will go next Thursday.” 

He did not insist, but, as he blew out the candle, he 
remarked: 

“ You ought to go out more. Go to your mother’s, my 
dear, to-morrow night; it will amuse you. I will see to 
the children.” 

Marthe was greatly surprised. He generally wished to 
keep her at home, and grumbled if she were away for an 
hour. 

“I will go, certainly, if you wish.” 

He laid his head on the pillow, murmuring: 

“ Go, and., tell us all about it. It will amuse the 
children.” 

6 


92 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


CHAPTER VI. 

MISTAKES. 

T HE next evening the Abbe Bourette came for the 
Abbe Faujas, whom he had promised to introduce 
to the Rougon salon. He found him ready, standing in 
the centre of that large, bare room, and drawing on a pair 
of black gloves, which were white at every seam. 

“Have you no other soutane?” he asked, with a look 
of horror. 

“None,” answered Faujas, calmly. “This will do very 
well.” 

“Oh! yes, certainly,” murmured the old Priest. “But 
it is very cold; you must put on something else.” 

It was a clear, frosty night. The Abbe Bourette was 
warmly wrapped in a wadded silk cloak, and puffed down 
the street a little behind Faujas, who wore only his thread- 
bare soutane. They reached the Square and ascended the 
steps of one of the finest houses in the Vi He Neuve, with the 
fagade carved to the very roof. A servant in a light blue 
livery received them in the vestibule, and smiled as he 
said “ Good-evening ” respectfully to the Abbe Bourette, 
and took the wadded cloak. He seemed much surprised 
that the strange Priest wore no wrap of any kind on so 
cold a night. 

The Abbe Faujas entered the salon with head erect and 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


93 


an air of entire self-possession, while the Abbe Bourette, 
much disturbed, although he was an habitue of the man- 
sion, escaped as soon as possible into the next room. 
Faujas slowly crossed the large apartment, going toward a 
group of four or five ladies, one of whom he rightly 
divined to be the lady of the house. He presented him- 
self, and said two or three words. Felicite rose at once ; 
she examined him from head to foot with her keen, quick 
eyes, and then looked him straight in the face, saying, 
with a smile: 

“I am delighted, sir, to see you here.” 

Meanwhile the apparition of this Priest passing through 
the salon caused great astonishment. One lady, looking 
around suddenly, started back with a look of fright at the 
sight of this black mass towering above her. The impres- 
sion he made was far from favorable: he was so unusually 
tall and square-shouldered. His face was too hard, his 
hands too large, while under the penetrating light of 
the chandeliers his soutane looked so shabby that the 
ladies felt a little ashamed at seeing an Abbe so poorly 
dressed. They whispered behind their fans and turned 
their heads away, while the men exchanged significant 
glances. 

Felicite was excessively irritated at the manner of her 
guests. She stood in the centre of the room and elevated 
her voice, that the words she spoke to the Abbe might be 
heard by all : 

“ Monsieur Bourette told me,” she said, “of the diffi- 
culty lie had in inducing you to accept my invitation. I 


94 THE CONQUEST OF PL ASS A NS. 

must really lecture you a little, for you have no right to 
seclude yourself in this way.” 

The Priest bowed, without replying, and the lady con- 
tinued, in a tone of marked meaning: 

“I know you better than you think, notwithstanding 
the efforts you make to conceal your eminent qualities. I 
have heard of you, and I wish to be your friend. We 
will talk of all this later, however, for we shall hope to 
see you here constantly.” 

Faujas looked fixedly at her, as if in the way she flut- 
tered her fan there was some Masonic sign. He answered, 
in a low voice: 

“ Madame, I am always at your disposal.” 

“I am delighted to hear it!” she replied, with eager 
vivacity. “ We have all our friends about us to-night, 
whose acquaintance I wish you to make; but, first, I must 
present you to Monsieur Rougon.” 

She crossed the salon, disturbing several persons, to 
make way for the Abbe Faujas, thus making him of im- 
portance, which effectually turned every one against him. 
In the next room whist tables were arranged. She went 
directly to her husband, who was playing with all the 
gravity of a diplomatist. He looked up impatiently as 
she touched his shoulder, but on hearing the dozen 
words she murmured in his ear, he rose hastily : 

“ Very well ! ” he said ; “ very well ! ” 

And excusing himself to his partner, he went forward to 
greet the Abbe Faujas. 

Rougon was then a man of seventy, stout and pale, with 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


95 


the solemn, pompous air of a millionnaire. After exchang- 
ing a few polite sentences with the Priest, he went back to 
his game. 

When the Abbe Faujas found himself alone, for Felicite 
had returned to the salon, he was not in the least disturbed. 
He stood looking at the players apparently, but in reality he 
was examining the hangings, the carpet — the whole room, 
in fact. It was a small room, with three book-cases of 
ebonized wood, ornamented with brass, filling up three 
sides. The Priest then calmly crossed the large salon once 
more. It was rather heavily furnished in green, but had 
a good deal of gilding, suggesting the administrative 
gravity of a Minister, and the aggressive luxury of a great 
Restaurant. Beyond was a small boudoir, where Felicite 
received in the morning, hung with straw color, with fur- 
niture of the same hue, but mingled with much violet, and 
so crowded with chairs, divans and footstools, that it was 
almost impossible to get across it. 

The Abbe took a seat near the fire, in such a way that he 
was able to command the greater part of the salon. The 
gracious welcome accorded by his hostess puzzled him, and 
he sat with half-closed eyes, thinking out the problem. 

He presently heard the sound of voices behind him; his 
high-backed chair concealed him entirely from sight. He 
listened, shutting his eyes still more, as if soothed by the 
heat of the fire. 

“ I was there once in those days,” said a thick voice. 
“ They lived nearly opposite then on the side of la Rue de 
la Banne. You must have been in Paris, at that time, for 


96 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


everybody here knew the Rougons’ yellow salon. At that 
time it was a dreary salon, with a fifteen-cent paper, and 
furniture covered with worsted plush; all the chairs were 
more or less broken. Look about you now. See her with 
her rich chestnut-colored satin and her laces! See her 
extend her hand to Delangre ! Zounds ! if she has not 
given it to him to kiss!” 

A more youthful voice answered with a sneering 
intonation : 

“They did well to steal if this be the result; for you 
know this is the handsomest room in town ! ” 

“ The lady,” continued the other, “ always had a passion 
for receiving. When she had hardly a cent in the world, 
she drank water, that she might offer lemonade to her 
guests! Oh! I know them root and branch — these 
Rougon people. They are clever and unscrupulous. 
The Coup d’Etat assisted them in the gratification of 
dreams by which they had been haunted for forty years, 
and now they have a fit of indigestion, caused by the 
quantity of good things they have swallowed ! This very 
house belonged to Monsieur Pierotte, who was killed in 
the affair of Sainte-Roure. A most accommodating bullet 
disembarrassed them of this gentleman, whose shoes they 
walked into. They had his house and his office, and if 
Felicite could have had but one, I am convinced that she 
would have taken the first. She had coveted it for ten 
years, and was absolutely sick of envy each time she looked 
at the rich curtains at the windows. It was her Tuileries 
after her second of December. That was the mot in circu- 
lation here.” 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


97 


“ But whence came the money with which they bought 
the house ? ” 

“Ah ! my dear fellow, who can tell ! Their son Eugene 
has arrived at a most extraordinary degree of distinction in 
Paris, and found not the smallest difficulty, he being a 
familiar friend and counsellor at the Tuileries, in securing 
a decoration and an office for his father, who had played a 
delicious little farce here. They bought the house through 
some arrangement with a banker, and now they are rich. 
I fancy their son must keep strict watch and guard over 
their acts, for so far they have not made a false move.” 

There was a brief silence, and then the voice went on 
with a stifled laugh : 

“ It is intensely droll to me when I see that grasshopper, 
Felicite, put on all these airs — the airs of a Duchess! I 
remember that yellow salon, its worn carpet and shabby 
console, and the fly-stained lace over her lustres. Now 
see her receive the Rastoils. By Jove ! she understands 
the management of a train, though ! ” 

The Abb6 Faujas gently turned his head so that he could 
see Madame Rougon — the centre of an obsequious circle. 
She seemed to have grown a foot, as she cast about her the 
condescending glances of a Queen. 

“Here comes your father,” said the thick voice. “ Yes, 
that is the Doctor. It is very odd that he never told you 
any of these things. He knows them all better even than 
I do.” 

“Oh ! my father is always in mortal terror of my get- 
ting him into trouble in one way or another. You know 


98 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


he has always declared that he should lose all his patients 
through me and my follies. Excuse me ; I see young 
Maffre, and wish to speak to him.” 

A chair was pushed aside, and Faujas saw a tall young 
fellow with a worn and dissipated face go into the next 
room. The other person, the one who had so lightly 
criticised the Rougons, rose at the same time. A lady 
who was passing stopped to say a word or two to him. 
She called him “ dear Monsieur Condamin.” 

The Priest at the same moment recognized the handsome 
man of sixty whom Mouret had pointed out in the Pre- 
fect’s garden. 

Monsieur de Condamin took a chair on the other side of 
the fireplace, and was considerably surprised at seeing the 
Abbe Faujas, who had been hidden by the high back of 
his chair, but he was not in the least disconcerted. He 
smiled. 

“ My dear Abbe,” he said, “ I think we have been to 
confession without knowing it. It was certainly a great 
sin to abuse our neighbors as we did, but then it is a com- 
fort to know that you were there to absolve us.” 

The Abbe, great as was his self-control, colored slightly. 
He understood instantly that he was reproached for listen- 
ing, but Condamin was not in the least a person to bear 
him a grain of malice on this account. In fact, he was 
rather pleased at the terms on which this occurrence placed 
the Priest and himself toward each other. He thought 
this Abbe would make an excellent auditor — all the 
more that he had a very bad face, and that his soutane 


THE CONQUEST OF PL ASS A NS. 


99 


was so old, that his words, should he choose to repeat any 
imprudent confidences, would have no weight whatever. 

In fifteen minutes Monsieur de Condamin was at his 
ease, and launched on a full explanation of Plassans. 

“ You are a stranger, sir,” he said, “and I shall be glad 
to serve you in any way. I am not to the manor born — I 
come from Dijon ; and when my present position was 
given in connection with the rivers and forests, I hated 
the country, and honestly thought I would rather die than 
live in it. It was on the eve of the Empire, and in 1851 
the Provinces were anything but cheerful, while later the 
mere sight of a gendarme was enough to make them crawl, 
into the earth. After a time things calmed down, and I 
too became resigned. I lived a healthy out-of-door life, 
was half the time on horseback, and made a few friends — ” 

He lowered his voice, and in a more confidential tone 
continued : 

“ If you take my advice, you will be prudent. Plas- 
sans is divided into three distinct Quartiers — the old, 
where you will go only to carry consolation and alms, the 
Quartier Saint Marc, the abode of the noblesse, who are 
envious and suspicious more from ennui than anything 
else, and the Ville-Neuve around the Square here. At 
first I was simple enough to suppose that my antecedents 
compelled me to look for companionship in the Quartier 
Saint Marc, but I found everybody old and dull, and 
sighing over the good old days when Bertha spun. 
Never a fete, never a dinner — never anything! Then I 
took an apartment on the Square, and made the acquaint- 


100 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


ance of some charming people among the officials. We 
live entirely among ourselves — as much so as if we had 
planted our tents in a conquered land.” 

He smiled as he held up the sole TT one boot to the 
crackling flame, and took a glass of punch from the tray 
of a servant who was passing. As he drank it slowly, he 
watched the Abbe from the corner of his eye. The Priest 
felt that politeness compelled him to speak. 

“This seems a very agreeable house,” he said. 

“ Certainly ; the Rougons make us forget Paris. It is 
the only real salon in Plassans, because, here there is a 
Tittle of everything and everybody. Pequeur entertains, 
but not half as agreeably.” 

Condamin placed his empty glass on the mantel, and 
continued : 

“The by-play of society is what amuses me — the minor 
comedies — but to appreciate them you must know the peo- 
ple. Do you see Madame Rastoil between her two daugh- 
ters? And did you see her eyelids quiver when Monsieur 
Delangre took a chair opposite? They have been oil 
terms of the greatest intimacy for more than ten years, and 
people say that her youngest child is his — ” 

The Abbe Faujas closed his eyes, and seemed to pro- 
test against these confidences. Monsieur de Condamin, to 
justify himself, said, hastily: 

“I speak of Delangre in this way, because I know him 
well. He was an unsuccessful lawyer here until Madame 
Rastoil took him up. She actually sent him wood all one 
winter. He never declared himself politically all this 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


101 


time ; consequently, when in 1852 a Mayor was wanted, he 
was fixed upon as being absolutely the only person whose 
election could not offend ninety-nine out of a hundred. 
From that day all has gone well with him, and he has a 
magnificent Future before him. But he never could get 
on with Pequeur — ” 

He stopped, for before him stood the young man with 
whom he had previously been conversing. 

“ Monsieur Guillaume Porquier,” he said, presenting 
him to the Abbe, — “Dr. Porquier’s son.” 

And when Guillaume had seated himself, the elder 
gentleman said: 

“And what did you find that was agreeable?” 

“ Nothing,” answered the young man, pleasantly. “ 1 
only saw Paloque. How hideous he is!” 

“Yes, he is hideous, but never mind that now, young 
man, for I have a word to say to you. Your father has 
been talking to me to-day. He says that you spend your 
nights at the Club; and I heard also — ” 

Here Monsieur de Condamin leaned forward, and the 
two talked eagerly in a low voice, lest the anecdotes they 
were repeating should reach the ears of some ladies 
near by. 

The Abbe sat in the same chair, but he was not lis- 
tening; he was watching the movements of Monsieur 
Delangre so intently that he started when the Abb6 
Bourette touched his arm, and begged him to follow him. 

When they were beyond all possible risk of being 
overheard, the old Abbe murmured : 


102 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


“ You are very excusable, I am sure ; for it is the first 
time you have been here. But I ought to tell you that 
you will be seriously compromised if you talk any longer 
with those men.” 

The Abbe Faujas expressed his astonishment. 

“I do not wish to be censorious/’ resumed the other, 
“ but they are not in the best odor here, and I wished to 
warn you.” 

He turned to depart, but Faujas held his arm. 

“You make me very uncomfortable, dear Monsieur 
Bourette. Please explain yourself.” 

“Well, then,” answered the old Priest, with some hesi- 
tation, “ that young man — the son of Dr. Porquier — is 
the great grief of his good father, and sets a most shameful 
example to the youth of Plassans. As to Monsieur de 
Condamin — ” He hesitated, not knowing in what words 
to put the terrible things he wished to say. He dropped 
his evelids. 

J 

“ Monsieur de Condamin is loose in words, and also in 
morals. He has made a marriage which is anything but 
honorable. You see that young woman over there who 
has a crowd about her. Well, he brought her here one 
fine day — no one knows from whence — and since her ar- 
rival she has been all-powerful. It is through her influ- 
ence that her husband and Dr. Porquier have been 
decorated. But I beg that you will not repeat what I say. 
Madame de Condamin is kind and amiable. I go to her 
house sometimes, and should be sorry were she to con- 
sider me her enemy. If she has faults, it is our duty to 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


103 


forgive them. Her husband is a bad man, however. Be 
guarded with him.” 

The Abbe Faujas looked the worthy Bourette full in 
the eyes. He noticed, too, that Madame Rougon was 
watching them. 

“ Was it not Madame Rougon,” he asked, hastily, “ who 
begged you to give me this good advice?” 

“How did you know that?” cried the old Abbe, much 
amazed. “ She begged me not to mention her name, but 
since you have guessed it, why, of course, it makes no dif- 
ference. She is a very kind woman, and would not like a 
Priest to appear ill under her roof. She is obliged to 
receive all sorts of people.” 

The Abbe Faujas thanked him, promised to be very 
prudent, and walked the whole length of the salon once 
more, only to encounter the same hostile glances and cold 
contempt. Skirts were hastily drawn aside at his ap- 
proach, as if he would soil them, and the men turned 
away with veiled contempt. But the Abbe was quite un- 
moved. He caught the word Besangon, and went directly 
toward the corner from which the word came. It was 
where Madame de Condarain sat, and the group around 
her were evidently talking of him ; for, at his approach, 
they all stopped short, except the youngest Rastoil girl, 
who, not seeing him, said to her sister : 

“But what was it that this Priest, of whom everybody 
is talking, did at Besangon ? ” 

“ I don’t know exactly,” said the elder girl, whose back 
was turned to Faujas; “ but I think he tried to choke his 


104 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


Cure in a quarrel. Papa said, too, that he was concerned 
in some mercantile speculation that turned out badly.” 

“But he is here to-night, is he not? Did not some one 
say that he was laughing with Monsieur de Condamin?” 

“If that is so, then there is all the more reason to dis- 
trust him ! ” 

This foolish talk of these two girls brought beads of 
sweat to the brow of the Abbe. He did not wink, but 
his mouth was compressed and his face grew ghastly. He 
fancied all the salon were talking of the Cure he had 
strangled and of the dishonorable business in which he had 
been concerned. Dr. Porquier and Monsieur Delangre 
talked a little apart and looked at him with disapproving 
glances, while the other men did much the same. Madame 
Ilastoil took her seat between her two daughters as if to 
take them under her wing; the Abbe leaned against the 
piano with his face as hard and fixed as if it were carved 
out of stone. It was clear that they were all agreed to 
treat him as a pariah. In spite of his immobility, Faujas 
saw all that was going on in the room. He saw the Abbe 
Fenil behind an absolute barricade of skirts, comfortably 
established in an arm-chair, with a discreet smile on his 
mocking face. Their eyes met : they looked at each other 
for several seconds with the terrible air of two duellists about 
to engage in mortal combat. Then there was a great rustle 
of silk and the Vicar was swamped, so to speak, among 
the laces of his feminine admirers. 

Meanwhile Felicite had gradually made her way to the 
piano, where she quickly installed Mademoiselle Bastoil, 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


105 


who had a charming voice, and sang a song which de- 
lighted the room. Then, when Madame Rougon could 
speak without danger of being overheard, she drew the 
Abbe into a recessed window. 

“How have you displeased the Abbe Fenil ?” she asked. 

The Priest at first feigned great surprise, but, when 
Felicite had said a few words accompanied by a shrug of 
her shoulders, he yielded and spoke with considerable 
vehemence. They smiled and seemed to be exchanging 
the merest common-places, but their eyes gave the lie to the 
farce. The piano was silent and Felicite dropped her voice. 

“Your debut has been most unfortunate,” murmured 
Madame Rougon. “You had best not come again for 
some little time. You must make yourself liked. It is 
essential.” 

The Abbe Faujas said slowly: 

“And you know that these tales were started by Mon- 
sieur Fenil?” 

“ That is a strong way of putting it ; but I do know 
that he has thrown out certain hints to his penitents. I 
know that he is afraid of you, and he wished to take the 
initiative and fight you with every possible weapon. The 
worst is, that he is the Confessor of the best people in town. 
It was he who secured the nomination of the Marquis de 
Langrifort.” 

“I was very foolish to come here to-night,” said Faujas, 
incautiously. 

Felicite’s lips were nervously compressed. She answered 
quickly : 


106 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


“You were very foolish to involve yourself with a man 
like that Condamin. I have done my best. When the 
person wrote to me from Paris, I thought it wisest to in- 
vite you at once, supposing that you would make friends 
here, and that this would be your starting-point. But, 
instead of seeking to please people, you at once set every- 
body against you. Excuse my frankness, but you seem to 
have fairly turned your back on success. You have com- 
mitted other faults also — in going to live under my son-in- 
law’s roof — in shutting yourself up from the world, and 
in wearing a soutane that the very boys in the street laugh 
at!” 

The Abbe could not restrain a sigh of annoyance, but 
he said, simply: 

“I will profit by your advice, only remain quiet your- 
self. Any assistance from you would do more harm than 

“ You are wise,” said the old lady, “not to come back to 
this salon until you can do it in triumph. One word more, 
my dear sir : that person in Paris attaches great impor- 
tance to your success, and that is why I am interested in 
you. Do not make yourself so terrible ! Be more agree- 
able — especially to the women — if you wish Plassans to 
be yours.” 

Madame Kougon left the Abbe to thank the singer, and 
then took her position in the middle of the room, saying 
good-bye to her guests, who now began to retire. Faujas 
was a little disturbed as to the manner of his departure. 
Bourette had disappeared during the music, and he had 



THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


107 


supposed they would leave together. To go alone, he felt 
would be an admission of his absolute defeat, and that a 
rumor would be in circulation the next day, that he had 
been shown the door. He took shelter once more in the 
embrasure of a window, watching for an opportunity and 
a way, of making an honorable retreat. 

The salon was gradually emptying itself. Only a few 
ladies remained. Among them he noticed one very sim- 
ply dressed. It was Madame Mouret, pretty and youthful- 
looking, with her hair lightly waved. She surprised him 
by the calm sweetness of her face, with its large, dark 
eyes. He had not noticed her all the evening; she had 
probably been in some corner, annoyed at losing so much 
time, with her hands idly folded on her knees, doing noth- 
ing. He saw her now as she came forward to say good- 
night to her mother. 

Felicite was keenly sensible of the position she occupied 
in Plassans, and gloried in seeing the fashion of the town 
appear night after night in her salon, remembering that 
once, they would have been only too glad to trample down 
this dear Madame Rougon whom to-day they flattered 
and caressed. 

“Ah ! Madame,” murmured the Judge, “we forget how 
the hours go when once we get here.” 

“ You are the only person in this savage country who 
knows how to receive,” whispered the pretty Madame de 
Condamin. 

“ We shall expect you at dinner to-morrow,” said 

Monsieur Delangre, “ but you must not expect anything 

7 


108 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


more than a family dinner, for we make no pretension to 
your style of living.” 

Marthe heard all this ovation as she approached her 
mother, whom she embraced. Her mother laid her hand 
on her arm, and looked about as if in search of some one. 
Seeing the Priest, she said, with a laugh : 

“Are you a gallant man, sir?” 

He bowed profoundly. 

“Then you will have the goodness to take my daughter 
home. As you live in the house, it will not take you 
out of the way, and the street is too dark for me to be 
willing for her to go alone.” 

Marthe, with her tranquil air, said that she was not a 
young girl, and that she was not afraid; but her mother 
insisted, saying that she should be much easier if she were 
under the charge of the Abbe. And as they went out, 
Felicite, who accompanied them to the head of the stairs, 
said in a low voice to the Priest: 

“ Remember what I said — Please the women if you 
wish to carry Plassans ! ” 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


109 


CHAPTER VII. 

A CLOSER ACQUAINTANCE. 

rTIHAT same evening Mouret, who had not been asleep^ 
insisted on hearing all that had occurred. Marthe 
answered him that she had seen nothing extraordinary ; 
everything was as usual. She added that the Abbe had 
walked home with her, but that he had said nothing of 
any consequence. Mouret raged at what he called his 
wife’s “ indolence.” 

“ There might have been an assassination at your 
mother’s,” he said, pulling his pillows around him with an 
indignant air, “ and I don’t believe you would have 
seen it ! ” 

The next day, when he came home to dinner, he called 
out to Marthe as soon as he saw her : 

“ I told you so ! You never see anything ! Think of 
your being the whole evening in a room and knowing 
not one thing of what goes on! Everybody is talking 
of it.” 

“ Of what ? ” asked Marthe, in amazement. 

“Of the Abbe Faujas! Of his being dismissed from 
your mother’s salon ! ” 

“ But he was not.” 

“ I tell you, you never hear or see anything ! They 
say that this Abbe was guilty of some terrible crime at 


110 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


Besangon — strangled a Cur6 or committed a forgery, I 
don’t know which — but it was hushed up all the same. 
But he is done for here.” 

Marthe turned away, and allowed her husband to 
chuckle over the Priest’s downfall. 

“I still adhere to my original idea, though!” he con- 
tinued. “I am convinced that your mother has some 
manoeuvre in her head in connection with him. I hear 
she was very sweet to him. Was it not she who bade the 
Abbe come home with you ? Why did you not tell me 
that ? ” 

She shrugged her shoulders deprecatingly : 

“You are very extraordinary! Every one of these 
small details is of importance. Madame Paloque told me 
that she and several ladies remained, to see how the Abb6 
would get out of the room. Your mother made use of 
you, simpleton, to protect the retreat of this Priest, and 
you never suspected it! Now see what you can remember 
of what he said on your way home.” 

He seated himself in front of his wife, and held her 
fixed by his sharp eyes. 

“Good heavens!” she answered, but not impatiently, 
“he said many unimportant things — things that everybody 
says : spoke of the cold, of the quietness of the town at 
night, and, if I am not mistaken, of the agreeable evening 
he had passed.” 

“Ah ! the hypocrite ! And he said not one word of your 
mother, nor of the people he had met there?” 

“Not a word. But then, you know, the distance is not 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


Ill 


long from la Rue cle Banne here; it did not take us three 
minutes. He walked by my side, but did not offer me his 
arm. He took such long strides that I was compelled 
almost to run. He did not seem in very good spirits, and 
shivered in his old soutane.” 

Mouret was not bad-hearted. He admitted that it was 
too hard on the Abbe to wear such a soutane in such cold 
weather. 

“Then,” continued Marthe, “we have nothing to com- 
plain of in him. He pays regularly, makes no noise, and 
I think is a model lodger.” 

“Yes, to be sure; but, as I was telling you, you really 
ought to be more wide-awake when you go out. I know 
the people who frequent your mother’s house only too 
well — I know all their gossip and envy, and their lying 
stories. The Abbe probably never did any harm to any 
one, and I said as much to Madame Paloque. I told her 
that these people had better wash their own dirty linen 
before they troubled themselves about that worn by other 
people.” 

Mouret lied; he had not said a word of the kind to 
Madame Paloque. But his wife’s manner had made him 
feel ashamed of the pleasure he had shown in speaking of 
the Abb6’s misfortunes. For the next few days he 
was decidedly on the Priest’s side. He met several 
persons he disliked — Dr. Porquier, Delangre, and Mon- 
sieur de Bourden — and he at once launched forth in 
praise of the Abbe, merely that he might not seem to be 
agreeing with them, and also with the hope of astonishing 
them. 


112 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


According to him, the Abbe Faujas was a most remark- 
able man, courageous and simple, and he dropped a few 
allusions to the people whom the Rougons received, stig- 
matizing them as vain fools and hypocrites. At the end 
of a week he had made the Abbe’s quarrel his own. 

“It is abominable,” he said to his wife, forgetting that 
Marthe had heard any other language from his lips, “ to 
see people who have stolen their money — God only knows 
where — attack a poor man who has not twenty francs in 
the world! Such things are disgusting. I am willing to 
be his surety. I see how he lives and know what he 
does, and I shall tell these people just what I think of 
their conduct, whenever I have the opportunity. More- 
over, I wish the Abbe to regard me as his friend. I 
intend that he shall take my arm when we go out to- 
gether, that I may show these people that I am not 
ashamed to be seen with him.” 

Marthe smiled discreetly. She was happy to have her 
husband say to her that she must be kind to these people; 
and Rose received the same order. The cook, conse- 
quently, in the morning, when it rained, offered to execute 
any commissions for Madame Faujas, who invariably re- 
fused these offers, although she was by no means so silent 
and reserved as at first. One morning she even conde- 
scended to accept from Marthe, whom she met on her way 
down from the attic, two superb pears. And these pears 
led to greater intimacy. 

The Abbe, too, did not glide up the stairs with such 
rapidity. The rustling of his soutane was always listened 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


113 


for by Mouret, who at once emerged from the dining-room, 
ready to go out with the Priest. He had thanked him 
for the little courtesy extended to his wife, and skilfully 
questioned him as to whether he intended to go again to the 
Rougonsk 

The Abbe smiled and said, without the smallest embar- 
rassment, that he was not made for society. Mouret was 
delighted at the prospect of keeping the Priest for himself, 
and when Marthe told him that Madame Faujas had 
accepted the two pears, he was still more pleased. 

“ Can it be that they have not lighted a fire yet, cold as 
it is?” 

Rose, taking it for granted that the question was 
addressed to her, answered : 

“ I don’t know what they would light, for not a stick 
has been brought in yet. They might burn their four 
chairs, I suppose ! ” 

“It is not kind in you to laugh, Rose,” said Madame 
Mouret. “These poor things must nearly freeze.” 

“Indeed they must,” added Mouret; “the thermometer 
was down to ten degrees last night, and we feared for the 
olives. Our water-pitcher froze, and yet it is not nearly 
as cold as up-stairs.” 

And in truth the dining-room was so carefully protected 
that not a breath of air could come in. An enormous 
porcelain stove kept the temperature at a most comfortable 
heat. The children read around the table, and Mouret 
compelled his wife to play cards with him, which to her 
was a perfect penance. 


114 


TIIS CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


a We had best ask the Faujas people to pass the evening 
with us. They will be warm for two or three hours, at 
least. You had better go ask them yourself/* 

The next day Marthe, meeting the old lady in the cor- 
ridor, gave the invitation. The old lady accepted it at once. 

“ I wonder why she showed no reluctance?** said 
Mouret, meditatively. “ I fancy that the Abb6 begins to 
see that he can live like a rat in a hole no longer.** 

Mouret insisted that the table should be cleared away 
earlier than usual that night. He placed a bottle of good 
wine on the buffet and had brought in a package of small 
cakes. These were no great preparations, but, he thought, 
would suffice, to let the Priest see that other people, as 
well as the Rougons, knew how to do things. The Abbe 
and his mother appeared about eight o’clock, the Priest in 
a new soutane, which so astonished Mouret that he hardly 
knew what he was saying. 

The children were bidden to bring forward chairs. 
The room was intensely hot, as Mouret wished to prove 
that he did not count a stick more or less. The Abbe 
was very amiable, caressing Desiree and talking to the boys. 
Marthe, who was knitting, looked up more than once, as- 
tonished at the soft inflections of this strange voice. She 
looked at the Priest’s strong face and square features; then 
she dropped her eyes, but without any desire to hide the 
interest she felt in this man, who was at once so strong 
and so tender, and whom she knew to be enduring so 
many privations. 

Mouret examined the new soutane, and finally said, with 
a laugh : 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 115 

“ You need not have made any toilette, sir, to come here. 
We do not regard you as a stranger.” 

Marthe colored. But the Priest answered gayly that he 
had bought the soutane that same day, and he wore it to 
please his mother, who thought him as handsome as a King 
whenever he wore new clothes. 

Madame Faujas nodded an assent without a word. She 
sat opposite her son, and never took her eyes off his face, 
but watched him with a sort of ecstasy. They talked of 
many things. The Abbe seemed to have lost much of his 
coldness of manner. He was grave, but it was kindly 
gravity. He listened to Mouret, and seemed interested in 
all his chatter. 

“ We pass our evenings just as you see,” said Mouret. 
“We never have any company, because we like best to be 
by ourselves. My wife and I play cards every night; it 
is an old habit of mine.” 

“Do not let us disturb you,” exclaimed the Abbe. 
“ Pray have your game as usual !” 

“ By no means. I am not quite as mad about cards as 
all that ! ” 

The Priest insisted, but seeing that Marthe refused even 
more earnestly than her husband, he turned to his mother, 
who sat with her hands folded in front of her. 

“Mother,” he said, “suppose you play a game with 
Monsieur Mouret.” 

She looked questioningly at her son. Mouret continued 
to refuse, declaring that the general pleasure should not be 
thus sacrificed to him, but when the Abbe said that his 
mother played a very good game, he wavered. 


116 THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 

“Is that really so? Then if Madame is willing — ” 

“Come, mother/’ repeated the Abbe, in a more decided 
tone. 

“Certainly/’ she replied ; “only you must give me your 
seat.” 

“Yes,” said Mouret; “you, sir, will please take that 
chair by my wife, and let your mother come here.” 

The Priest, who at first had been seated opposite Marthe 
with the table between them, was now close at her side at 
the other end of the long table. The boys had withdrawn. 
Desiree, as usual, was asleep, with her head on her arms. 
When the clock struck ten, Mouret, who had been igno- 
miniously beaten, insisted on his revenge. 

Madame Faujas looked at her son, and as he made no 
objection, dealt the cards again. 

The Abbe had said very little to Marthe, and on the 
most indifferent subjects — of the price of living in Plas- 
sans, and of the responsibilities of bringing up her children. 

Marthe answered pleasantly, occasionally lifting her 
clear eyes to her companion. 

When the clock struck eleven Mouret threw down his 
cards in disgust. 

“I have not had a respectable card to-night!” he ex- 
claimed. “ We will have another game to-morrow night, 
Madame, if you say so.” 

The Abbe demurred, saying that they could not think 
of intruding in this way every night. 

“But it is notan intrusion,” said Mouret. “It gives 
us great pleasure. Besides, I have lost, and Madame can’t 
refuse me my revenge.” 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


117 


When the strangers accepted and departed, Mouret con- 
tinued to talk : 

“The old lady does not play as well as I do,” he said 
to his wife ; “ but she has sharper eyes. I wonder if she 
cheats! I shall find out to-morrow.” 

From that day the Faujas spent their evenings regu- 
larly with the Mourets, for a formidable contest was well 
started between the old lady and her landlord. She 
seemed to allow him to win just enough to prevent him 
from being discouraged, while he, who had always prided 
himself on his game of piquet, was in a sullen rage. She, 
however, never lost her rigid impassibility; her square 
peasant’s face was as utterly stolid as usual, and her large 
hands laid her cards down on the table with the regularity 
of a machine. 

At the other end of the table sat the Abbe and Marthe, 
almost as if they were alone. The Abbe had all the con- 
tempt of the man and the Priest, for the woman. Unin- 
tentionally this contempt showed itself in an occasional 
word, when Marthe would look up quickly with some- 
thing of the feeling which makes one look behind, to see 
if some hidden enemy has not lifted his arm to strike. 

Again, in the midst of a laugh, she would be checked 
by a sudden recollection of his soutane, and wonder to her- 
self how she could have talked so freely to this man, who 
was not as other men. 

Never once did the Abbe ask Marthe a direct question 
in regard to herself, her husband, or her children. But he 
none the less discovered, every detail of their history and 


118 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


actual life; and each night, while his mother and «fouret 
played their interminable game, acquired some new fact. 

He had noticed from the first that husband and wife 
looked strangely alike, and finally made a remark to 
Marthe to that effect. 

“ Yes,” she answered, “ when we were twenty we were 
always taken for brother and sister. The resemblance, I 
think, rather decided our marriage — people were always 
saying what a pretty couple we should make. In fact the 
resemblance was so great, that good Monsieur Campan 
hesitated to marry us.” 

“ But you are first cousins?” 

“Yes,” she said, with heightened color, “my husband 
is a Macquart, and I am a Rougon.” 

She hesitated a moment, thinking that the Priest knew 
the story of her family, which was celebrated in Plassans. 
The Macquarts were the illegitimate branch of the Rnugons. 

“ Singularly enough,” she added quickly, to conceal her 
embarrassment, “we both resemble our grandmother, 
although my father was not in the least like her.” 

The Abb6 mentioned a similar instance in his own fam- 
ily. He had a sister who was the most extraordinary 
likeness to her mother’s grandfather. The likeness in this 
case had skipped two generations, and his sister was like 
this man in character, habits, and even in her gestures and 
voice. 

“ That is the same with me. I used to hear people 
say when I was little : ‘ That is Aunt Dide all over ! 9 
The poor woman is at Tulettes; her head was never quite 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


119 


right. As I have grown older, my health has become 
firmer; but I remember at twenty I was very delicate, 
and had queer fancies. I laugh now whenever I think of 
what a strange child I was ! ” 

“ And your husband?” 

“Oh! he is like his father — calm and methodical. We 
are alike in person, but very unlike in character. We 
were very happy in our shop at Marseilles. I lived 
fifteen peaceful years there.” 

The Abb6 Faujas fancied that he detected in her tone 
every time this subject was approached, a certain faint bit- 
terness. She was unquestionably happy; but he suspected 
that this tranquillity had been gained, by the approach of 
her fortieth birthday, which had appeased the longings of an 
unsatisfied nature. And he pictured to himself this drama 
of husband and wife, so alike in feature that strangers 
took them to be brother and sister, considered by their 
friends as made for one another, while in the depths of their 
being — the leaven of illegitimacy — the incessant combat 
of intermingled and rebellious blood increased the antag- 
onism of two different temperaments. Then he thought 
of the trammels of their lives, of the deterioration of 
character crushed by daily cares, and finally the dull con- 
tent of these two natures in their fortune, so rapidly ac- 
quired, and now so modestly expended in this quiet town. 
To-day, although they were both young, their love seemed 
to have burned itself out. The Abbe wished to know if 
Marthe was thoroughly resigned to this. 

“ I am well content,” she said. “ My children fill my 


120 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


life. I have never been very gay. If I am a trifle dull 
at times, it can’t be helped. My mind, perhaps, needs a 
little more occupation; but what can I do? If I read a 
novel even, I have a headache, and all the characters 
haunt my dreams for a week. Sewing does not fatigue, 
and I prefer to remain in-doors with my work-basket, and 
avoid all the noise and the gossip of the outside world, 
which weary me inexpressibly.” 

She looked at Desiree, who smiled in her sleep. 

“Poor innocent!” murmured the mother, “she can’t 
even sew. All she cares for is animals. I send her some- 
times to her nurse in the country. She lives in the 
farm-yard, and comes back with rosy cheeks and a happy 
face.” 

Marthe often spoke of Tulettes, and expressed great 
fear of insanity. The Abbe soon discovered that, although 
Marthe sincerely loved her . husband, he was in many 
ways distasteful to her ; that she was wounded by his sel- 
fishness, and by his indifference, and even by the quiet 
peace which he had created for her, and with which she 
declared herself to be well satisfied. When she spoke of 
her husband, she said : 

“ He is very kind and good. If he is vexed at times, it 
is only about some trifle — a flower-pot out of place in the 
garden, or a book left on the floor. I know that people 
call him close, and say that he keeps me in the house, and 
won’t give me even a pair of boots ; but it is not true. I 
am absolutely free. He unquestionably likes to find me 
here when he comes home, but that is all. I can do as I 
please, but he knows that I do not care to go out.” 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 121 

In defending Mouret against the ill-natured chatter of 
Plassans, she expressed herself with so much animation, 
that the Priest suspected her of defending him at the same 
time against her own secret accusations. He fancied, also, 
that her aversion to society arose rather from fear than 
dislike. She seemed to feel that this quiet room, and 
the old garden with its tall box-hedges, were her only 
safeguard against some terrible catastrophe. 

She smiled softly and sewed more steadily than ever, 
and presently all her animation died away, and the Abbe 
Faujas saw only a common-place-looking woman with dull 
eyes and pale cheeks, who adorned the house with a 
certain grace, like that of a bouquet of flowers that had 
grown in the shade. 

Two months slipped away. The Abbe and his mother 
had fallen into all the habits of the Mourets. Each had 
his own place at the table; the same lamp was always 
lighted, and the same monotonous words fell from the lips 
of the players. 

Mouret — when Madame Faujas had not been too trium- 
phant — spoke of his guests as “ very nice.” He no longer 
troubled himself about the Abbe, and in reply to any 
remarks that were made to him, he would say, impatiently : 

“ Why don’t you let the man alone? You take too 
much trouble to explain the simplest things. I know him 
thoroughly. We always pass our evenings together. He 
knows what he is about and whom to associate with ; that 
is all to be said about it.” 

Mouret was the only person in Plassans who could 


122 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


boast of knowing the Abbe, and he rather abused this 
advantage. He gave Madame Rougon to understand that 
he had stolen the Priest from her. She smiled her faint, 
shrewd smile, but said nothing. To some of his intimate 
friends Mouret went further. He said that these Priests 
did nothing like other men. He went into the most trivial 
details of how the Abbe drank ; how he addressed a 
woman ; how he never crossed one leg over the other — 
trifling anecdotes which showed the uneasiness with which 
he, free-thinker as he was, looked at this mysterious sou- 
tane, which fell to the heels of this Priest. 

February had now arrived. Up to this time the Abbe 
seemed to have carefully avoided speaking of religion to 
Marthe. She had said to him more than once : 

“I am not a religious person, sir; I rarely go to 
church. At Marseilles I was always very busy, and here 
I am too lazy to go out. To tell the truth, too, I have 
not been educated with religious ideas.” 

The Priest bowed silently, wishing to show her that he 
did not care to speak of such things in such times and 
seasons. But one evening he spoke of the great help that 
suffering souls find in religion. It was in connection with 
a poor woman, who had been driven to commit suicide by 
a succession of terrible reverses. 

“ She did wrong to despair,” said the Priest, in his rich 
voice. “She was ignorant of the consolation of prayer. I 
have often seen them come to us crushed and weeping, and 
go away filled with a resignation which they had vainly 
sought elsewhere. They had acquired it as they knelt in 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


123 


humiliation in a forgotten corner of the church. They at 
last belonged to God ! ” 

Mar the listened to these words, which awoke strange 
echoes in her heart. 

“ Yes,” she said, softly, as if to herself ; “ it ought to 
be a comfort. I have thought so sometimes, but I have 
always been afraid.” 

The Abbe touched rarely on these subjects, but he 
spoke much of the poor in the vicinity. Every night he 
had some new tale of misfortune to tell, and Marthe 
would drop her work and listen, with tears in her eyes, to 
his account of people who were dying of hunger, and who 
were impelled to evil acts because they were starving; 
while from the further end of the room came the hot 
dispute of Madame Faujas and Mouret over a misdeal or 
the odd trick. 

About the middle of February a terrible discovery was 
made in Plassans. A number of young girls — almost 
children — had gone utterly to the bad, by having been 
allowed to roam the streets in the evening. It was 
darkly rumored that they did not owe their fall to boys 
of their own age, but that men of high position were 
involved. 

For a week Marthe brooded over this sad story. She 
knew one of these girls — a pretty blonde, whom she had 
often seen in her own kitchen, for she was the niece of her 
cook, Rose — and she shivered with horror as she thought 
of the poor child. 

“ It is a shame,” said the Abbe, one evening, “that 
8 


124 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


there is not at Plassans a charitable institution on the plan 
of the one at Besangon.” 

And when urged by Mar the, he went on to describe the 
establishment. It was a sort of creche for the daughters 
of working people — girls, from eight to fifteen, whose 
parents went out to work and left them alone at home. 
During the day these children were taught to sew, and in 
the evening were taken back to their parents. In this 
way the girls grew up apart from vicious associations, and 
surrounded by good examples. Marthe became very 
much interested in the idea, and began to talk of the pos- 
sibility of such an institution at Plassans. 

"It should be placed under the protection of the 
Virgin,” said the Abbe. “But you have no idea of the 
difficulties to conquer. To carry such an idea into com- 
pletion, it is not mere money that is wanted : it is a real 
mother’s heart.” 

Tears came to Marthe’s eyes. She turned and looked 
at Desiree; then quietly asked certain questions in 
regard to the probable expenditures of such an establish- 
ment. 

"Will you assist me?” she said to the Priest, abruptly, 
one night. 

The Abbe took her hand; held it for one moment as 
he murmured that she had a noble soul. He agreed to do 
all he could, but he frankly told her that it would be little. 
She must take the greater part on her shoulders. It was 
she who must go among the ladies and form an associa- 
tion; she who must solicit subscriptions; she, in short, who 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


125 


must attend to the laborious and delicate details of an ap- 
peal to the charity of the public. And he appointed an 
hour for her to meet, at Saint-Saturnin, the architect of the 
diocese, who would be able, better than himself, to give 
her some ideas in regard to expenses. 

That night, on retiring, Mouret was very gay. He had 
beaten Madame Faujas. 

“ You look very happy, my dear,” he said to his wife, 
“ but you should have seen how she looked when I brought 
out my ace ! ” 

As Marthe took down from her wardrobe a silk dress, 
he asked, in some surprise, if she were going out the next 
day, for he had heard nothing of what had been said. 

“ Yes,” she answered; “I have several things to do, and 
an appointment at the church with the Abbe Faujas on a 
matter which I will tell you about.” 

He looked at her in utter astonishment. Then, with- 
out any anger, but with a certain light scorn in his voice, 
he said : 

“Well ! well ! This is news indeed. I never expected 
you would have this bee in your bonnet ! ” 


126 


THE COK QUEST OF PLASSANS. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

A WORK OF CHARITY. 

M ARTHE, the next clay, went first to her mother’s, 
and explained the idea she had in her head. The 
old woman shook her head. 

“ It is the Abbe’s idea, not yours/’ she said, abruptly. 

“ Yes,” answered Marthe, much surprised ; “ we talked 
a long time together about it, but how did you know it?’* 
Madame Rougon shrugged her shoulders lightly. After 
a short silence she said : 

“You are right, my dear, after all. You need some 
occupation, and this will do as well as another. It worries 
me to see you always shut up in that dull house. But you 
must not expect me to help you. I wish to have nothing 
to do with it. People would instantly say that we two were 
trying to force our ideas down the throats of these people, 
and I prefer that you should have the entire benefit of your 
good thought. I will help you with my advice, if you 
desire it, but nothing more.” 

“ But I thought you would be one of the original Board 
of Managers ! ” answered her daughter, in dismay at being 
left alone in the presence of such an undertaking. 

“No. Say on the contrary to every one that I refused 
on the score of being too busy just now. You can even 
go so far as to hint that I have no faith in your project. 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


127 


That would decide these ladies at once, for they will be 
delighted to embark in a project with which I have nothing 
to do. See Madame Pastoil, Madame de Condamin, 
Madame Delangre. See Madame Paloque also, but go to 
her last. She will be flattered, and of more use to you 
than all the others; and if you get into any trouble, come 
to me.” 

She went to the door with her daughter, and as the 
light fell full on the young woman’s face, the old lady 
said, with her shrewd smile: 

“And the dear Abbe is well ? ” 

“Very well,” answered Marthe, calmly. “I am going 
to the church now to meet him and the architect.” 

Marthe and the Priest had not asked for an interview 
with the architect, for they thought their plans as yet too 
vague for that, but they were almost certain of meeting 
him at the chapel, where he went at a certain hour each 
day. They could consult him, they hoped, in an accidental 
sort of way. 

Marthe passed through the church, and saw the Abbe and 
Monsieur Lieutand talking together upon a scaffolding. 
The shoulder of the Abbe was all white with plaster. 

At this hour of the afternoon there was not a person 
within the church except two beadles noisily arranging the 
chairs. Masons were calling from their ladders amid the 
noise of their trowels against the rough walls. There was 
little of the dim religious air of a sanctuary about the 
church that day to trouble Marthe, who took a seat 
between the Abbe and the architect. 


128 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


The conversation lasted a half hour or more. The ar- 
chitect showed a great deal of kindly interest, but strongly 
advised that they should not undertake to build a house 
such as they required, for it would cost too much. It 
would be much better to buy one already built, which 
could be arranged, and he even suggested an old board- 
ing-school in the Faubourg which was then for sale. 
With a few thousand francs this dilapidated place could 
be completely transformed. He promised to do wonders — 
an elegant hall, large rooms, and a court-yard planted with 
trees. 

Marthe and the Priest had unconsciously raised their 
voices, and Monsieur Lieutand drew his cane up and down 
the flagstones, giving them an idea of the fa£ade. 

“Then, sir,” said Marthe, as she rose to take leave, 
“you will draw a plan, so that we may be able to show to 
people what we have in our heads, and in the meantime 
you will regard the whole matter as entirely confidential, 
will you not?” 

The Abbe Faujas went to the side door of the church 
with her. As they passed before the grand altar she was 
talking earnestly, and was suddenly surprised to find him 
no longer at her side. She turned and saw him prostrate 
before the great Cross, shrouded in folds of muslin. She 
remembered suddenly where she was, and looked around 
with an uneasy feeling. At the door the Abbe gravely 
extended his finger, wet with holy water. She crossed her- 
self, greatly disturbed — the double baize door fell softly 
upon her with a stifled sigh. 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


129 


From the church Marthe went at once to call on Ma- 
dame de Condamin. She was pleased at being in the open 
air, and these visits amused her. Madame de Condamin 
received her very cordially — why did dear Madame Mou- 
ret come so rarely? As soon as she learned what was on 
foot, she expressed herself as ready to do all that was re- 
quired. She was dressed charmingly in pale violet, with 
knots of gris de perle ribbon, and was ensconced in a 
boudoir, where she played the role of an exiled Parisian. 

“ You did well to come to me ! ” she said, enthusiastically. 
“If we, who are accused of setting these poor girls such 
bad examples of luxury, do not come to their aid, who 
will? It is indeed horrible to think of children being 
exposed to such infamy ! ” 

And when Marthe told her that her mother had declined 
to aid the plan, she redoubled her promises of assistance. 

“It is unfortunate that she should be so busy just now,” 
she said, with a certain irony in her tone, “for her help 
would have been invaluable; but I will do what I can. I 
have a few influential friends. I will see Monseigneur 
myself, and we will succeed — I feel that we shall.” 

She would not listen to any of the details. She w r as 
sure they could raise all the necessary funds. She added, 
with a laugh, that she had not brains enough for figures, 
and that her department should be the preliminary ar- 
rangements. Madame was not accustomed to begging; she 
would go with her. In another fifteen minutes the work 
was her own, and she was giving instructions to Marthe, 
who was about to withdraw, when Monsieur de Condamin 


130 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


entered. She hesitated, embarrassed by the presence of 
this man, who, it was rumored, was seriously compromised 
in the story of these poor girls, whose shame occupied the 
town. 

It was Madame de Condamin who explained the 
matter to her husband, who heard all she said with entire 
approval. 

“ It is an idea that could only have emanated from the 
brain and the heart of a mother,” he said, gravely. “Plas- 
sans will owe you much, Madame.” 

“It did not originate with me, sir,” said Marthe, 
coldly; “it was suggested by a person whom I greatly 
esteem.” 

“And who was that?” asked Madame de Condamin, 
curiously. ' 

“The Abbe Faujas.” 

And Marthe, with simple dignity, went on to say what 
she thought of the Priest, with no allusion, however, to the 
miserable gossip which had been circulated about him. 
She spoke of him as a man worthy of all respect, whom 
she was glad to have under her roof. 

Madame de Condamin listened, with occasional nods of 
assent. 

“I have always said,” the latter suddenly exclaimed, 
“that this Abbe was a remarkable person ; but there have 
been terrible things said — silenced, however, since you took 
him up. Then this idea was his ! He should come for- 
ward, then, in the matter; but until he decides to do so, 
we will say nothing about him in connection with it. I 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


131 


assure you that I have always liked and defended this 
Priest.” 

“I talked to him and he seemed to be a very good fel- 
low!” said her husband. 

But his wife silenced him with a frown. She often 
treated him as if he were her valet. In the equivocal 
marriage with which Monsieur de Condamin was re- 
proached, it strangely happened that he alone bore the 
shame, for the young woman, whom he had brought into 
the town, had won all hearts by her grace and beauty. 
He saw that he had best withdraw from this virtuous 
conversation. 

“I am going to smoke a cigar,” he said. “Octavie, 
remember that we dine at the Prefect’s to-night, and don’t 
be late.” 

When he had gone the two women had a little more to 
say. 

“ You had best call on Madame Rastoil and Madame 
Delangre at once ; tell them that I am very sanguine,” 
said Madame de Condamin, “and that they must lend 
their aid.” 

Madame Mouret went at once to these two ladies, whom 
she found polite but less cordial than Madame de Conda- 
min. They looked at the pecuniary side : where was the 
money to come from? If they should start the charity and 
then be obliged to give it up, it would make them ever- 
lastingly ridiculous. 

Marthe brought out her figures. Then they wished to 
know what ladies were interested in the scheme. Madame 


132 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


de Condamin’s name struck them dumb, but when they 
heard that Madame Rougon had excused herself, they 
became quite demonstrative. 

Madame Delangre had received Marthe in her husband’s 
office. She was a pale, gentle little woman. 

“I shall be very glad to aid you,” she said, “in estab- 
lishing this Institution, but I must beg you to allow me to 
consult my husband, before giving you a decided reply.” 

In Madame Rastoil, Marthe found a woman who was 
excessively prudish and hesitated for words in which to 
speak of these wretched creatures who had forgotten their 
duties. She was stout, and was embroidering a rich alb, 
with the assistance of her two daughters. She dismissed 
them at once. 

“I am infinitely obliged to you for thinking of me,” she 
said ; “but I belong to so many charitable societies already, 
that I am doubtful if I have the time. I had something 
of this same idea myself, and have been trying to find a 
little leisure to lay it before the Bishop. My idea was on 
rather a broader scale — more complete, perhaps. But we 
can unite our efforts. I think you will see that in some 
respects you have made a mistake, but we can soon change 
all that. My husband said to me yesterday, ‘My dear, 
will you never find time to attend to anything for your- 
self?’” 

Marthe looked at her with some curiosity, thinking of 
the old story of her liaison with Monsieur Delangre. She, 
like the wife of the Mayor, received with evident distrust 
the name of the Abb6 Faujas, which incensed Marthe, who 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 133 

persistently dwelt~on the good qualities of this Priest, who 
lived in seclusion and took care of his mother. 

When Marthe left Madame Rastoil it was seven o’clock, 
but she determined, nevertheless, to see Madame Paloque, 
even if she were late and lectured by her husband. The 
Paloques were just going to table in a cold dining-room, 
which was excessively clean and orderly, but dingy and 
meagre in its appointments. 

Madame Paloque re-covered the soup-tureen and tried 
to conceal the annoyance she felt. She was polite, but 
evidently wondering at this unexpected visit. Her hus- 
band pushed his chair back a little from the table. 

“Little scamps!” he exclaimed, when Marthe alluded 
to the young girls whose downfall had sent her forth on 
her present mission. “You are wrong, Madame, to 
trouble yourself about such creatures.” 

“ I doubt,” interposed Madame Paloque, “ if I can help 
you. My husband would sooner cut off his hand than beg 
for any charity. We live very modestly — happy that the 
world has forgotten us. If my husband were offered pro- 
motion to-day. he would refuse it. Is not that so, my 
friend ? ” 

The Judge nodded, and Marthe looked from one to the 
other of these two faces, which were actually livid with 
disappointed ambition. She fortunately remembered her 
mother’s advice. 

“I relied on you,” she said, courteously. “We shall 
have all these ladies I have named to you; but, between 
purselves, they will give only their names and their money. 


134 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


I am desirous of finding some of the highest respectability 
who will take the matter to heart, and I thought of you as 
just the person. Think of the debt Plassans will owe us 
if we succeed ! ” 

“ Certainly — certainly!” murmured Madame Paloque, 
highly flattered. 

“Then, too, you are altogether wrong in thinking your- 
self without influence. It is wrong for you to keep your- 
self in the shade any longer, and this is the time to show 
the world the kind of heart and head you have.” 

The Judge looked at his wife. 

“Madame Paloque has not refused,” he said. 

“ By no means,” added his wife. “ If you really need 
me, that is enough. I probably shall commit another 
blunder, and shall never reap the smallest reward for the 
exertions I make, but still we may as well be dupes to 
the end.” 

Marthe took leave of these people, thanking them for 
their unselfishness. She lingered a moment on the steps 
to release a flounce that had caught in the railing, and she 
heard the Judge and his wife talking eagerly. 

“ They need you,” said the Judge. “They intend you 
to be their beast of burthen.” 

“ That may be,” said his wife, sharply, “ but they pay 
for it well ! ” 

It was quite eight o’clock when Marthe reached her own 
house. Mouret had been waiting nearly an hour. She 
fully expected a scene, but when she entered the dining- 
room, after discarding her hat and cloak, she saw her 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


135 


husband seated astride a chair, the picture of good 
humor. 

“I thought, my dear,” said he, “that you intended to 
sleep in the Confessional to-night. If you have taken to 
going to church, please let me know it, as I shall dine else- 
where on those nights.” 

All through dinner he uttered similar graceful pleasant- 
ries, which were more distasteful by far, to Marthe than 
severity and open rebuke. 

She looked at him imploringly, but this only stimulated 
him still further. Octave and Desiree laughed, but Serge 
was very grave, taking his mother’s part. 

At dessert Rose came in, quite terrified, to say that the 
Mayor was there to see Madame. 

“Ah!” sneered Mouret. “You seem to be hand-in- 
glove with the authorities.” 

Marthe went to the salon to receive Monsieur Delangre, 
who, in the most courteous way, said he could not wait until 
the next day to thank her for the generosity of her idea. 
Madame Delangre was a little timid ; she should have 
accepted at once, and he wished to say in her name that 
she should be most happy to be one of the lady patro- 
nesses in this work for the Virgin, while he himself would 
give all possible support to the project. 

Marthe went with him to the street-door, and while Rose 
held the lamp high up to light the sidewalk, the Mayor 
added : 

“Say to Monsieur de Faujas that I shall be happy to 
talk with him, if he will kindly call upon me. As there 


136 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


is a similar establishment at Besangon, he may be able to 
give me many useful details. I wish the city to purchase 
the building site. Au revoir, dear lady ; pray present me 
cordially to Monsieur Mouret.” 

That evening, when the Abb§ appeared with his mother, 
Mouret said : 

“ So you ran away with my wife to-day, did you ? 
Don’t spoil her; don’t make a Saint of her.” 

He then became absorbed in his cards, while Marthe 
was free to narrate to the Priest her success of the day. 
She was as gay as a child, and still all alive with the 
unwonted excitement of spending an afternoon outside of 
her own four walls. 

He seemed to be annoyed at the message from the 
Mayor. 

“ You should not have mentioned me,” he said, roughly. 
“ But you are like all women — the best plans are injured in 
your hands.” 

She looked up hastily, surprised at his tone, and feeling 
that sensation, not unusual to her, of shrinking from his 
black soutane. It seemed to her as if heavy iron hands 
were laid on her shoulders. To all Priests a woman 
is an enemy. When he saw her evident emotion, he 
softened somewhat, and murmured : 

“I am thinking only of the success of your project. I 
fear lest I shall injure it — you know that I am not liked 
here.” 

Marthe, seeing this humility, assured him that all the 
ladies had spoken kindly of him; and until eleven the two 
talked earnestly of their plan. 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


137 


Mouret had caught a word or two, and when they were 
alone, he said : 

“ You two are clever people. Between you, you will 
suppress Hell altogether!” 

Three days later the Board of Managers were nominated. 
Marthe was made President, and she, at her mother’s secret 
instigation, nominated Madame Paloque as Treasurer. 
These two did an immense amount of work, directing circu- 
lars and seeing various people. In the meantime, Madame 
de Condamin went from the Prefect to the Bishop, and from 
him to other influential persons, explaining with her usual 
grace, the happy project she had conceived, and in exqui- 
site toilettes, solicited alms and promises of support. 
Madame Rastoil in her turn told the Fathers, whom she 
received on Tuesday, how the idea had come to her of 
rescuing these unhappy children from vice. Madame 
Delangre whispered to her little world, that the town 
would be indebted to her husband for this great charity. 
Plassans was quite stirred by this pious excitement. 
Subscription lists were flying in every direction, and as 
the Gazette published the names and amounts, a pleasing 
spirit of rivalry was soon inaugurated. 

Amid all this commotion the name of the Abbe Faujas 
was constantly heard. Although each of the Lady Mana- 
gers claimed the idea as her idea, it was generally believed 
that the Abbe had brought it from Besangon. And finally 
he was invited to attend a meeting of the City Council, 
who had under discussion, the purchase of the building 
suggested by the architect as particularly appropriate for 


138 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


this charity. By degrees a revolution in favor of the 
Abbe set in, and he no longer walked in the shade of the 
houses, but held his head high, and displayed his new 
soutane in the middle of the street, and bowed to the right 
and the left. One Sunday Madame de Condamin stopped 
him on the Square, aud detained him there for a full half 
hour. 

“ You are in the full odor of sanctity now, sir,” said 
Mouret, with a laugh. “And to think that six months 
ago I was the only one to fight your battles ! But you 
had better be careful ! ” 

The Priest lifted his eyebrows slightly. He knew very 
well that the hostility from which he had suffered ema- 
nated from the clergy. The Abbe Fenil was away during 
March, and Faujas took advantage of his absence to pay 
several visits to the Bishop, whose Secretary told, with 
surprise, that “this devil of a man” was closed with Mon- 
seigneur for hours, and that Monseigneur’s temper was not 
improved by it. When Fenil returned, Faujas went no 
more to the Bishop’s, but it was evident that something 
was going on. At a dinner, which he gave to his clergy, 
he showed such marked attention to Faujas, who was only 
a poor Priest at Saint-Saturnin’s, that the lips of the Abbe 
Fenil were nearly invisible. 

But it was on a Tuesday evening that he triumphed 
definitively. He was at his window, enjoying the first fresh- 
ness of spring, when the friends of the Prefect, who were 
assembled in the next garden, all turned and saluted him. 
Madame de Condamin even waved her handkerchief. At 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


139 


the same time Monsieur Rastoil’s little circle witnessed 
this scene. 

Monsieur Delangre said in a low voice : 

“ He will not condescend to see us ! ” 

But he was mistaken, for the Priest, turning his head 
as if by chance, took off his hat. Then all the Priests 
who were there, did the same. Again did the Abbe Fau- 
jas bow, and after looking first on his right and then oil 
his left at the two rival circles, he closed his window, and 
drew his white curtains closely. 

9 


140 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


CHAPTER IX. 

CONFESSION. 

A PRIL was very sweet that year. As soon as dinner 
was over, the children deserted the dining-room 
for the garden. Marthe and the Priest left the close room 
also, and went out on the terrace. They took their seats 
not far from the open window, through which the light 
streamed on the tall box-hedge. There they talked in the 
dewy twilight of the thousand duties connected with the 
Society of the Virgin. This mutual interest brought them 
very closely together. Opposite them, between the pear 
trees of Monsieur Rastoil and the tall chestnuts of the 
Prefect, was a strip of blue sky. The children rushed 
about at the extreme end of the garden, with their shouts 
of noisy laughter softened by the distance, while from the 
dining-room, came the sharp but brief disputes of Mouret 
and Madame Faujas over their cards. Sometimes Marthe, 
with her head thrown back, would see a star shoot across 
the sky. 

“Another soul from Purgatory entered into Paradise,” 
she said — 

As the Priest did not reply, she continued: 

“These simple superstitions are very charming: one 
would like always to be a child to believe in them.” 

She no longer sewed in the evening, for to do so would 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


141 


have necessitated a lamp on the terrace, and she preferred 
the semi-obscurity. Besides, she went out now nearly 
every day, and was so tired at night that she had not the 
courage to take up a needle. Mouret grumbled a good 
deal about his hose being in holes, and went to Rose for 
assistance. Marthe was very busy in these days. Besides 
being obliged to preside at all the meetings of the Society, 
there were many visits for her to make ; and so great was 
her zeal, that she went three times in the week to inspect 
the progress of the workmen on the building. When 
things seemed moving slowly, she applied to the architect, 
and entreated him to keep his men up to the mark. 
Monsieur Lieutand smilingly assured her that all would 
be ready within the specified time. 

Finally, for one reason or another, either to see the 
architect or the Abbe, there was hardly a day that Marthe 
was not at Saint-Saturnin. The chill of the church calmed 
her excessive energy. She dipped her fingers into the Holy 
water and crossed herself mechanically, because other 
people did. The beadles all knew her, and she herself 
became familiar with every nook and corner of the church. 
Sometimes compelled to wait for the architect, she would 
take a seat and fall into a reverie. She began to love 
those arches, the solemn nudity of the walls, the gleaming 
altars and the long rows of chairs. When the double 
door closed behind her, she had a sensation of intense 
relief and repose. 

“It is delicious at Saint-Saturnin!” she said to her hus- 
band rashly, one night, after a day of great heat. 


142 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


“ Shall we go there to sleep ?” asked Mouret, with the 
laugh she dreaded. 

She was wounded — and also troubled at the physical 
sensation of comfort she felt in the church; so much so 
that she did not enter the church for some time without a 
sense of self-reproach. 

The Abbe did not seem to notice any change in the 
character of Marthe, while in her eyes he was the same as 
ever, courteous and obliging, and not disposed to trouble 
her with any conversations on religion. 

Sometimes, when she entered the church, it would be 
during a funeral, and he would come to her in his sur- 
plice, bringing with him a faint odor of incense. Some- 
times she wanted a mason’s estimate or a carpenter’s bill. 
He would give them to her, and then go out with the dead 
body, leaving her in the vacant church, where the beadles 
were putting out the candles. 

When the Abbe Faujas, crossing the church, bowed 
before the centre altar, she did the same out of politeness 
toward him. Finally this reverence became mechanical, 
and she performed it even when she was alone. Several 
times she came on days of some grand ceremony; but oil 
hearing the organ and seeing the church full, she would 
linger outside, afraid to cross the threshold. 

Mouret tortured her with his jokes. He asked her 
when her first Communion would take place. She did 
not reply, but riveted on him her large eyes, whose angry 
flash told him he had gone too far. By degrees he became 
more bitter, and finally flew into a passion: 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


143 


“ You are always out of the house! ” he cried. “ Every- 
thing is in disorder — nothing is done here. The table is 
never laid until after seven o’clock, and the way we live 
is a disgrace.” 

He picked up a towel as he spoke, put the cork into a 
bottle of wine, and wiped the sideboard off with his hand, 
showing her the dust on his fingers. 

“I shall soon be compelled to put on an apron and take 
a broom in my hand ! ” he continued. “ I do not imagine 
you would object, however. I have spent two hours this 
morning already trying to put that pantry in order. No, 
no, my good girl, things can’t go on in this way! ” 

Sometimes his reproofs would be administered before 
the children. Mouret, coming in, had found Desiree “as 
dirty as a pig,” lying flat on the ground, watching an 
ant-hill. 

“I think it is fortunate that you come home to sleep!” 
he exclaimed as soon as his wife appeared. “I want you 
to see your daughter and enjoy the spectacle.” 

The little girl wept hot tears while her father turned 
her round. 

“Does she not look nice? It is not her fault, poor 
child! Once you were not willing to leave her five min- 
utes; you said she would set herself on fire, and she will 
do it, too — and not only herself, but the whole house.” 

Rose took Desiree away, but this did not silence the 
child’s father. 

“You live now for the children of other people,” he 
continued; “and such rascals as they are, too. Go any 


144 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


night to the ramparts, and you will see the scamps you 
have placed under the protection of the Virgin. You had 
best take a little more care of your own child. Some time 
you will find her with a limb broken ! I have nothing to 
say about your boys, though it strikes me that it would be 
a good thing, if they should occasionally find you at home 
when they come in from College. They are brimful of 
mischief. Yesterday they had some gunpowder on the 
terrace. Some day you will come home and find not one 
stone left on another.” 

Marthe excused herself. But Mouret was right — the 
house was going to destruction. This pretty home was 
disorderly and desolate; the meals were ill-cooked and ill- 
served, and no one was satisfied. 

Things got to such a point that Mouret, meeting his 
mother-in-law by accident, complained bitterly of his wife, 
although he felt that the old lady was glad to hear of his 
discomforts. 

“You astonish me,” said Felicite, with a bland smile. 
“I have always supposed that Marthe stood in wholesome 
awe of you. In fact, I thought her too weak and yield- 
ing. A wife ought not to tremble before her husband.” 

“But she did once!” cried Mouret — “one look from 
me, and she would do anything I wanted. But now she 
does just as she pleases. She does not dispute — in fact, 
she does not reply at all — but that will come in due 
time.” 

Felicite answered like the hypocrite she was: 

“If you desire it, I will speak to Marthe; but it might 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


145 


hurt her feelings. Such things should rest between hus- 
band and wife. But I am not uneasy; you will find a 
way of bringing back the peace of which you were once 
so proud. ” 

Mouret shook his head. 

“It was a great mistake in people, that of thinking I 
ruled my wife. If she has done as I desired always, it 
was because she was too utterly indifferent to care what 
she did. With all her air of gentleness, she is very obsti- 
nate. But it would have been better if I had not spoken 
of this to you. Of course it will remain between us.” 

The next day Mar the went to see her mother. 

Felicite at once said: 

“ My daughter, you are very wrong. I saw your hus- 
band yesterday ; he is very much vexed with you. He is 
very wearisome, I know, but that is no reason why you 
should neglect your home and your duties.” 

Marthe riveted her eyes on her mother. 

“Ah! he complains of me, does he? He might at least 
preserve a dignified silence — I never complain of him ! ” 

And she began to talk of other things, but Madame 
Rougon asked for the Abbe. 

“Tell me,” she said, “may it not be that Mouret dis- 
likes him, and that he is out of temper with you on that 
account ? ” 

Marthe was utterly astonished. 

“ What an idea ! ” she exclaimed. “ Why should he 
not like the Abbe? What on earth did he sav that could 
induce you to think so? No, you are mistaken. He goes 
for them to come down if they miss an evening.” 


146 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


In fact, Mouret had nothing to say against the Abb6 ; he 
merely jested about him in a coarse way— for example, one 
morning he called out to Marthe : 

“ Look here ! ” he cried, “ if you ever go to confession, 
take this Abbe for your spiritual adviser. Your sins 
would remain then, so to speak, in the family.” 

The Abbe was the Confessor for Tuesdays and Wednes- 
days, and on these days Marthe learned to avoid the 
church, saying that she did not wish to disturb him. One 
Wednesday she went with Madame Condamin to visit the 
Institution, whose facade was just completed, and which 
Madame Condamin unequivocally condemned, declaring 
that it had no character and no massiveness. 

Marthe admitted the same, but with hesitation, and 
promised, when urged by her companion, to say a word to 
the architect that very day. In order to keep her pro- 
mise, she went by the church, but she was too late* — Mon- 
sieur Lieutand had gone. When she asked for the Abbe 
Faujas, he was in the Chapelle Sainte-Aurelie. She re- 
membered the day with a start, and murmured that she 
would not wait ; but when she got outside the Cathedral, 
she felt faint and ill, and sat down. The sky was grey, 
and the church was filled with the twilight. Way down 
at one end glittered a light, the gilt base of a candlestick^ 
and the silvery robe of the Virgin, while a pale ray of 
sunshine glanced across the polished oak of the stalls. 

Marthe felt strangely exhausted— her limbs were as if 
broken ; her hands so heavy that she folded them on her 
knees, as if she had no strength to bear their weight. 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


147 


She fell into a light slumber as she sat there, (luring 
which she continued to see and to hear the slight noises 
within — the soft step of a tardy worshipper echoed through 
the church. Her heart was strangely open to impressions 
just then, and with closed eyes she drank in, each faint, 
mysterious sound. 

A voice at her side awakened her from this ecstasy. 

“ I saw you,” said the Abbe, “ but I could not come. 
I am very sorry.” 

She awoke with a start. She looked at him as he stood 
in his surplice against the sunset sky. The last penitent 
had gone, and the church was empty. 

" You wished to speak to me?” he asked. 

She tried to think — * 

“ Yes— but — ah! I remember. Madame de Conda** 
min does not like the fagade. There should be two 
columns and an ogive with stained glass. Do you see 
what I mean ? ” 

He stood looking down upon her, with his hands folded 
over his surplice, and she talked on, in an aimless sort of 
way, almost as if she were asleep. 

“ It would be an expense, to be sure ; but we can ask 
the master-mason what it would cost. Only it would be 
as well to decide before we pay his last bill, for which we 
have the funds.” 

Her head drooped, as if weighed down by the eyes she 
felt upon her. When she lifted her eyes and met those of 
the Priest again, she clasped her hands and burst into 
sobs like a child. The Priest made no attempt to soothe 


148 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


her. She threw herself on her knees, and covered her 
weeping face with her hands. 

“ Rise !” said the Abbe Faujas, gently; “it is before 
God that you should kneel.” 

He lifted her, and then took a seat by her side. Then 
in low voices they talked long and earnestly. 

The night grew dark; the lamps within the church 
were lighted. The words of the Priest followed in long 
sentences after each faint reply uttered by Marthe. When 
they rose, he seemed to refuse a favor which she entreated, 
for, as he led her to the outer door, he said, raising his 
voice : 

“No, I cannot. It is much better for you to take the 
Abbe Bourette.” 

“ But it is your advice I need/’ murmured Marthe. 
“ It seems to me that under your direction things would 
be much easier.” 

“ You are mistaken,” he replied, in his peremptory 
voice. “ The Abbe Bourette is the Priest you should 
have now. Later, perhaps, I may give you different 
advice.” 

Marthe obeyed. The next day the devout at Saint- 
Saturnin were much surprised to see Madame Mouret 
kneel before the Confessional of the Abbe Bourette, and 
for two days the town rang with this conversion. 

The name of Faujas was pronounced with a wise look 
by several persons, but, on the whole, the impression was 
decidedly favorable to the Priest. Madame Rastoil con- 
gratulated Madame Mouret at a meeting of the Lady 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


149 


Patronesses. Madame Delangre declared it to be an 
indication that God blessed their work in touching the 
heart of the only one among them who had not openly 
avowed herself to be a Christian ; while Madame de Con- 
dam in took her aside : 

“ You are right, my dear,” she said; “ it is very essen- 
tial for a woman. If one goes out at all, one ought to go 
to church.” 

But no one could understand her choice of a Confessor : 
the Abbe Bourette’s penitents were always young girls. 
On Madame Rougon’s Thursday, a little group in a cor- 
ner were discussing this point before the arrival of Marthe, 
who, as she came in, was warmly greeted by her mother. 
Felicite herself had been reconciled with God the day after 
the Coup d’Etat. It seemed to her that the Abbe might 
now venture to show himself again in her salon, but he 
excused himself on the score of his occupations and love 
of solitude. She fancied that he was projecting a trium- 
phal entree the following winter. His success was con- 
stantly on the increase. At first his penitents were only 
the market women in the rear of the Cathedral, to whose 
patois he listened, but not always with a full comprehen- 
sion of its meaning. But now, since the Society of the 
Virgin was organized, he saw on Tuesdays and Fridays 
a circle of women in silk dresses kneeling around his 
Confessional. When Madame Mouret — in her simplicity — 
said that he would not have her, Madame de Condamin 
at once left her director and went to the Abbe Faujas; 
which step settled the social status of the latter at once 
and forever in Plassans, 


150 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


When Mouret heard that his wife went to Confession, 
he said : 

“And what are you doing so bad, that you have to tell 
it to a soutane ? ” 

When his wife reproached him for having complained 
of her, he said : 

“You are right. It is silly to bore people with one’s 
own troubles, and I promise not to give your mother so 
much pleasure again.” 

And from this time he never reproached his wife in the 
presence of others, but seemed to be the happiest of men. 
If he wounded her, it was in ways that she only could 
understand. He was more than economical now: he was 
avaricious. 

“ There is no sense,” he said, “ in spending money as 
we do. You waste your time, and that is quite enough. 
In future I will allow you one hundred francs per month 
for your toilette ; if you choose to give it to these worthless 
girls, do so ; but it will be taking the clothes from your 
back.” 

He kept his word, and the next month refused to pay 
for a pair of boots she had ordered. But that night his 
wife found him alone in his room with his head on his 
arms. She went to him, put her arms around him, and 
begged him to tell her what troubled him. He shook her 
off roughly. 

“Do you think,” he said, “that I am fool enough to 
confide in you?” 

She was deeply wounded. The next day he affected the 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


151 


greatest gayety, but in the evening refused to play cards, 
saying that his head ached. The next evening he made 
another excuse, and so on until the card -playing came to 
an end. They spent the evenings on the terrace, Mouret 
sitting opposite his wife and the Abbe, ready to snatch the 
conversation, while Madame Faujas sat a little apart in 
the shadow, silent and motionless, like one of those legen- 
dary figures guarding a treasure with the fidelity of a 
crouching dog. 

“ It is very much nicer here than inside,” Mouret said 
regularly every night. “ Ah ! a shooting star ! Saint Peter 
is lighting his pipe up there ! ” 

He laughed, while Marthe remained very grave, feeling 
that the beauty of the night was marred by his jests. He 
commenced his sentences very often with the words, “ Now 
that my wife goes to Confession,” and, when tired of this, 
amused himself by listening to the voices in the next 
gardens, and telling who was there. 

To his incessant babble, the Abbe and Marthe answered 
only by brief words when he directly addressed them. 
Generally the two sat looking up to the sky, their spirits 
together and afar off. 

One night Mouret fell asleep. Then they drew nearer 
to each other, and talked slowly and gravely. Madame 
Faujas, a little apart, with fixed eyes, neither saw nor 
heard, but had the air of watching over them. 


152 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


CHAPTER X. 

POPULARITY. 

T HE summer passed away. The Abbe Faujas seemed 
in no haste to take advantage of his growing pop- 
ularity. He lived in the same seclusion, enjoying the 
Mouret garden, in which he spent much of his day. He 
read his Breviary, walking up and down the path under 
the wall, and Mouret, watching him afar off, grew impa- 
tient at the regular passing to and fro of this dark form 
beyond the fruit trees. 

“ One is never alone in these days ! ” he muttered. u I 
can’t look up without seeing that soutane ! He is like a 
crow — always on the lookout for something. I don’t 
believe in his unselfishness!” 

Not until September was the building of the Society of 
the Virgin ready. Labor like that, is strangely dilatory 
in country towns, although it must be confessed that the 
original plans had been changed more than once by the 
Lady Patronesses, who, when they at last took possession 
of the establishment, were profuse in their compliments to 
the architect. 

The Inauguration gave occasion to a most touching fete. 
The Bishop himself installed the Sisters of Saint Joseph, 
who were detailed to take care of the house. About fifty 
girls, between eight and fifteen, had been gathered together 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


153 


from the streets of the old Quartier, whose parents to 
ensure their admittance had only to say, that their own 
occupations detained them from home the greater part of 
the day. 

Monsieur Delangre pronounced a most eloquent dis- 
course, and spoke of the Institution as a noble charity, 
which would enable these young creatures to resist temp- 
tation, and wound up with a delicate tribute to the Abbe 
Faujas, who was there among the other Priests, listen- 
ing with an unmoved countenance, while Marthe colored 
deeply on the platform, where she sat in the centre of the 
Lady Patronesses. 

When the ceremonies were over, the Bishop wished to 
examine the house, and in spite of the evident dissatisfac- 
tion of the Abbe F6nil, he called Faujas to his side, saying 
in a loud voice that he knew he could find no guide who 
was better informed. These words ran quickly around the 
room, and every one that evening in Plassans was com- 
menting upon them. 

The ladies offered the Bishop a collation in the dining- 
room. He drank a glass of Malaga and ate a biscuit, while 
saying a courteous word to each in succession. This ended 
the fete, and the ladies congratulated themselves when alone 
that everything had passed off so well. Madame Paloque 
was white with rage. Alas ! the Bishop had forgotten her ! 

“ You were right,” she said to her husband on her return. 
“ They have simply made use of me. I have given them 
all my time, and this simple Bishop, who trembles before 
his clergy, could not find a word of thanks to me ! And 


154 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


what, pray, has Madame de Condamin done? She has 
shown a succession of new costumes, and is, as usual, no 
better than she should be ! Nice stories could be told 
about her, and Madame Delangre, and Madame Rastoil ! 
They have sat in their salons and literally done nothing. 
Madame Mouret acts as if she launched the ship, but she 
only held on to the soutane of her Abbe Faujas. That is 
another hypocrite, and we shall hear strange stories there, 
unless I greatly mistake! The Bishop had a word for each 
of them, but for me not one! I am the dog; but, Paloque, 
the dog may bite ! ” 

After this Madame Paloque was far less obliging. 
She kept her accounts so irregularly that the ladies talked 
of paying an employ 6. Marthe expressed her annoyance 
to the Abb6, and asked if he could recommend any one. 

“ Wait a little,” he said. 

He had been at this time receiving constant letters from 
Besangon, all in the same coarse hand. 

Rose declared that the very sight of the envelopes made 
him angry. 

“ He does not like the person who writes to him so 
often,” she said, sagaciously. 

Mouret’s former curiosity revived under this new ex- 
citement, and one day he himself took up one of these 
letters, on the pretence that Rose was out. The Abb6 
probably suspected his motives, for he pretended great 
delight, as if he had been looking impatiently for the 
letter. 

But Mouret was not deceived, and listened outside the 
door. 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


155 


“From your sister, is it not?” asked Madame Faujas. 
“ Why does she not let you alone ? ” 

There was a short silence, then a paper was crushed in 
an angry hand, and the Abbe exclaimed : 

“ It is the same old song ! She wants to come and 
bring her husband, and expects me to find some position 
for him. They seem to think we are rolling in gold, and 
some fine morning they will walk in ! ” 

“No, they shall not come,” answered the mother. 
“ They have always been jealous of you, Ovide, and have 
never loved you. Olympe is heartless, and Frouche is a 
scamp. No; they must not come; they would compromise 
you seriously.” 

Mouret hurried away, agitated by the meanness of which 
he had been guilty. A few days later he heard the Abbe 
say to his wife : 

“ I have found some one for you — a connection of mine 
— my brother-in-law, who will arrive in a few days from 
Besangon.” 

Mouret strained his ears. 

Marthe answered, greatly pleased : 

“ I am delighted, for it was difficult for me to decide. 
A man who is to go among all those young girls must be 
firm and decided, and of unquestionable morality. But 
if—” 

“ Yes,” interrupted the Priest; “ my sister had a small 
lingerie establishment at Besangon. She has sold out there 
on account of her health, and wishes to join us here. My 

mother is overjoyed.” 

10 


156 THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 

“Of course; it will be delightful/’ answered Marthe, 
“for you all to be together once more. We have two 
more rooms which are never used. Why do not your 
sister and her husband take those? They have no chil- 
dren, I suppose ? ” 

“ No. They have only themselves. I had thought of 
those two rooms, but I did not know if you would care to 
let them.” 

“Certainly, to you and your friends.” Here she felt 
Mouret pull her dress violently. He did not want these 
people there, and he remembered what he had heard 
Madame Faujas say. 

“Those chambers are very small,” he said. “I doubt 
if your sister, sir, would find them comfortable, and there 
are rooms vacant just opposite our house.” 

The conversation ended abruptly. Marthe thought that 
the Priest was wounded by her husband’s abruptness, which 
she herself had very keenly felt. After a moment’s silence 
she could bear it no longer. 

“Then it is a settled thing,” she said. “Rose will help 
your mother clean the rooms. My husband simply feared 
your possible discomfort, but if you really care for these 
chambers, they are entirely at your service.” 

When Mouret was alone with his wife, he flew into a 
violent rage. 

“Upon my word,” he exclaimed, “you are incomprehen- 
sible. You sulked when I let the Abbe his apartment, 
and now you throw open the doors to all the rest of his 
family! I pulled your dress. You knew perfectly well 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


157 


that I was opposed to it! I will not have these people 
here. They are not respectable.” 

“ How do you know ? Who told you so? ” cried Marthe, 
irritated by his injustice. 

“ The Abbe himself. At least I heard him say so to 
his mother.” 

She fixed her eyes on him; he colored. 

“The sister is heartless, and the husband is a scamp. 
These were their very words, and you need not put on the 
air of an insulted Queen. I tell you I will not have these 
people here ! The Abbe needs them to carry out some plan* 
of his own.” 

Marthe turned away in contempt. He told Rose not to 
clean the rooms, but Rose obeyed Madame. For five days 
there was no peace. He dared not attack the Abbe to his 
face, but he talked whenever he was there. After a while, 
as usual, he became more reasonable. He drew his purse- 
strings tighter, and when the Frouche pair appeared, he 
muttered : 

“ They are vile-looking people.” 

The Abbe showed no desire to greet his sister; but his 
mother stood on the sill of the door, watching for them 
and looking anxiously behind her in the corridor and 
kitchen. As ill luck would have it, Marthe, who was 
going out, came up the steps from the garden, followed by 
her children. 

Madame Faujas, usually so self-possessed, was strangely 
troubled. Mouret was on the stairs and Rose at the 
kitchen door. 


158 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


“You must be very happy ! ” said Marthe, addressing 
the old lady, and then, with a desire to relieve the general 
embarrassment, she added, turning to Frouche: 

“You came by the five o’clock train, I suppose? How 
far is Besan^n from here? ” 

“Seventeen hours by rail,” answered Frouche, showing 
his toothless gums; “and travelling third-class is pretty 
hard work — it shakes an empty stomach to pieces.” 

And he laughed aloud. 

Madame Faujas gave him a terrible look, and he me- 
chanically pulled together his greasy coat, and pushed for- 
ward two large pasteboard boxes. This was done to 
conceal the spots on his pantaloons. His sunburned 
throat was encircled by a ragged black cravat, and his 
seamed face was utterly vicious in expression, while two 
restless black eyes wandered about the house. 

Mouret said to himself that the man was examining 
the locks. 

“ He won’t need any wax to take the impressions,” he 
muttered; “his eyes are enough.” 

Olympe was tall and slender, fair and faded, with a 
meaningless face. She carried a box, of white wood, and a 
large bundle done up in a table-cloth. 

“We brought our pillows,” she said, with a glance at 
her huge bundle; “pillows are not a bad thing to have, 
Madame? ” 

“ Certainly not,” answered Marthe, in some surprise. 
Olympe walked forward a little, and added, in an 
insinuating tone : 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 159 

" I put on my worst clothes to travel in, and I said to 
Honore, ‘ Your old coat will do well enough/ My own 
dress, 1 do declare, has holes in it, while my hat is really 
a disgrace! But it is good enough for the dust, is it not, 
Madame? ” 

“ Certainly! Certainly!” answered Marthe, trying to 
smile. 

At this moment an exasperated voice was heard from 
above : 

u Well, mother? ” 

Mouret, looking up, saw the Abbe leaning over the 
upper railing. He had heard the voices, and wished to 
know what was going on. 

"Well, mother?” he repeated. 

" We are coming! ” answered Madame Faujas, trembling 
at her son’s angry tone, and, turning to the newcomers, 
she said : 

“ Come, my children, we are detaining Madame.” 

But the Frouche pair paid no attention; they were well 
into the hall, looking about with as contented an air, 
as if some one had just made them a present of the 
house. 

"It is very nice — very nice, indeed,” said Olympe, con- 
descendingly. “After Ovide’s letter I had no idea it would 
be so pleasant, but I said, ‘We may as well go and see for 
ourselves/ ” 

“Yes, we shall do very well here,” muttered her hus- 
band. “ The garden, too, is large, I fancy.” 

And turning to Mouret, he said : 


160 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


“Do you allow your tenants, sir, to walk in your 
garden ? ” 

Before there was time for Mouret to answer, the Abbe 
swept down the stairs. 

“Frouche, come here! Olympe, I want you!” he 
exclaimed, in a voice of thunder. 

They turned, and when they saw the Abb6, with his 
eyes blazing with wrath, they followed him in the most 
submissive manner. 

He turned and went up the stairs without another word 
— without even seeming to notice that all the Mourets 
were assembled, mute witnesses of this singular procession ! 
Madame Faujas smiled, in a constrained sort of way, at 
Marthe as she passed. The doors above shut with vio- 
lence; there were sounds of angry voices, and then a dead 
silence. 

“ He has nabbed them ! ” said Mouret, with a chuckle ; 
“ but he won’t keep them under his thumb, I fancy! ” 

The next day Frouche, properly dressed, well shaven, 
and his scanty hair brushed and parted, was presented by 
the Abbe to Marthe and the Lady Patronesses. He was 
forty-five, wrote a good hand, and said he had been a 
book-keeper in a commercial house. He was at once ac- 
cepted and installed in an office in the Institution, from 
ten to four, with a salary of fifteen hundred francs. 

“ You see they are quiet people,” said Marthe to her 
husband, after a few days. 

And this was true, although Rose said she occasionally 
heard a dispute between mother and daughter, quickly 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


161 


checked by the grave, firm voice of the Abb6. Frouche 
went out every morning at fifteen minutes of ten, and came 
in at a quarter past four, but he never went out in the 
evening, and as for Olympe, she was never seen without 
her mother. 

The window of the room where the new-comers slept 
looked out on the garden ; red curtains hung before the 
glass, and were never lifted. But one evening, when the 
Abbe with his mother was on the terrace, talking with the 
Mourets, he heard a little involuntary cough. He looked 
up quickly, with an air of intense annoyance, and saw 
Olympe and her husband leaning out. He ceased speak- 
ing, and presently the window closed. 

“ Mother,” said the Priest, “ you had best go in. I am 
afraid you will take cold.” 

Madame Faujas said “ Good-night.” 

When she had gone, Marthe said, pleasantly : 

“ I hope your sister is well. I have not seen her for a 
week.” 

“ She is in great need of repose,” the Priest replied, 
coldly. 

But she continued, kindly: 

u She does not have enough fresh air. Why does she 
never come down into the garden ? ” 

The Abbe answered in a constrained voice, while 
Mouret, with the hope of embarrassing him more, was as 
amiable as his wife. 

“ That is just what I was saying this morning. She 
ought to take her sewing into the garden these pleasant 


1G2 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


afternoons. I hope we don’t intimidate her ! I trust we 
are not so terrible as all that ! Tell her and her husband 
to come down and spend an evening occasionally with us. 
They must find it very dull up there all alone.” 

The Abbe was in no humor to endure his landlord’s 
mockery. He looked him full in the face. 

“ Thank you/’ he said, “but it is very unlikely that they 
will accept ! They are weary at night, and they go to 
bed—” 

“They can do as they please,” answered Mouret, enraged 
at the Abbe’s abrupt tone, and when he was alone with his 
wife he said : 

“It is plain to me that he is afraid that these creatures 
he has gathered about him, are waiting to do some evil 
deed. Did you see how they were watching us to-night ? 
I don’t like it at all.” 

Marthe was very happy in her new religious Faith, into 
which she had glided, so to speak, without shock or dis- 
turbance. The Abbe said little to her of God, but remained 
her friend, pleasing her with his quiet gravity and by the 
odor of incense which hung about him. Several times, 
when alone with him, she had burst into hysterical sobs, 
but each time he had taken her hands and calmed her with 
a quiet, steadfast look. When she wished to speak to him 
of her hours of intense sadness, of her secret joys, of the 
necessity she felt of guidance, he told her, with a gentle 
smile, that it was to the Abbe Bourette that she must say 
these things. After that she felt chilled and repelled. 

Marthe was now constantly at mass. In that great 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


163 


church she obtained her only absolute physical repose. 
When she was there, she forgot everything else — it was 
like a window commanding a view of another life, large 
and infinite. But she still had a certain lurking fear 
of the Church, an unwillingness to be seen crossing the 
threshold. 

She often returned home utterly exhausted by emotion. 
Rose was the real mistress of the house. She lectured 
Mouret because he put on too many clean shirts in the 
week, and if he was late to dinner. She even felt called 
upon to say a few words in regard to his salvation. 

“ Madame lives like a Christian, but you, sir, will cer- 
tainly go to perdition. Why don’t you go to mass next 
Sunday ?” 

Mouret shrugged his shoulders. He had ceased to 
struggle over the dirty, disorderly home. Octave and 
Desiree strolled through the house as they chose. Serge, 
who was not well, spent most of the time in his room, 
reading, for the Abbe lent him books. Mouret did not 
know how to manage his young people. He finally 
decided to send Octave to Marseilles and place him in a 
business house there. 

“As you can’t watch over him,” he said to Marthe, “ he 
had best go. You do nothing to make the house attrac- 
tive to him, and he spends his time in the streets.” 

Marthe awakened as from a dream at hearing that one 
of her children was to be taken from her. For a week 
she was more at home, but as soon as she knew that the 
day was fixed for Octave to go, she ceased to struggle. 


164 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


Mouret went with his son to the station, and returned 
with a full heart. He found his wife in the garden, 
crying. 

“You ought to be pleased,” he said, bitterly. “You 
can look forward to the others going, too, before long, and 
then you will be free to roam as you will. If Serge is too 
much in your way, I will send him off at once. And 
Desiree can go to her nurse, you know.” 

Marthe continued to weep. 

“You know you have your own choice,” he said, “and 
then, too, there will be more room in this house for the 
people you have brought in. Really, we ought to be 
thankful if we are allowed to stay here ourselves.” 

He looked up as he spoke. 

“You are watched,” he said, grimly. “I can see one 
pair of eyes behind the red curtain ; they belong to the 
Abbe’s sister, and they are always there. The Abbe may 
be a good man enough, but these people are treacherous. 
I know that if the Abb6 did not prevent them, they would 
come down in the night and rob my pear trees. Dry your 
eyes; she is gloating over your tears, and it is not worth 
while, because they are the real cause of our child’s de- 
parture, that they should rejoice at our sorrow.” 

His voice broke. Marthe, touched at his last words, 
would have thrown herself into his arms, but for the 
knowledge that they were seen. They felt that there was 
an obstacle between them, and separated in silence, while 
Olympe’s eyes still watched them from behind the red 
curtains. 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


165 


CHAPTER XI. 

MONSEIGNEUR. 

O NE morning the Abb6 Bourette appeared in a state of 
great excitement. He saw Marthe on the terrace. 
“Campan is dying,” he said. “I must see Faujas 
instantly.” 

And when Marthe pointed to the Priest, who was at the 
foot of the garden reading his Breviary, he hurried toward 
him, tottering on his short legs. He tried to speak, but 
sobs choked his voice. 

“ What on earth is the matter?” asked Mouret, bustling 
out of the dining-room. 

“The Cur6 of Saint -Saturnin is dying,” answered 
Marthe, through her tears. 

Mouret uttered a long whistle, and then, as he turned 
away, he said : 

“Bourette will be consoled to-morrow when he is made 
Cure instead ! He expected the position — he told me so.” 
The Abbe Faujas received the intelligence with great 
composure. 

“ Campan wishes to see you,” said Bourette. . “Ah ! he 
has been a good friend to me. He wishes to say farewell 
to you. He told me last night that you were the only 
Priest in the diocese who had had courage to go near him 
all this year that he has been ill, and yet you spent an 


166 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


afternoon with him every week ! But hurry : there is no 
time to lose.” 

The Abbe Faujas went up-stairs, leaving the elder Priest 
puffing and sighing in the vestibule. When they fairly 
started down the street, Bourette said, as he wiped his 
brow : 

“He would actually have died without a prayer, if his 
sister had not come to me at midnight. She did well, 
poor lady. He did not wish to involve any of us, and was 
willing to die without the last sacraments. And this is 
the man who has done so much good and whose life is a 
lesson to us all.” 

After a short silence the old priest continued : 

“F6nil will never forgive me, no, never! and I shall 
not be the Cure — but I am satisfied ! Carnpan has been at 
war with Fenil for thirty years. Little Eusebe, whom I 
took from the choir to ring the Viaticum, was frightened 
to death, and looked around to see that Fenil was not at 
his heels ! ” 

The Abb6 Faujas walked on without a word. Sud- 
denly he lifted his head. 

“ Has any one informed Monseigneur ? ” he asked. 

Bourette in his turn seemed absorbed, and did not reply. 
As they reached the Abbe Campan’s door, he murmured : 

“ Tell him we met Fenil, and that he bowed to us. It 
will please him, and he will think I shall be made Cur6 
after all.” 

The sister of the dying man opened the door. When 
she saw the two Priests, she burst into tears. 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


167 


“He is gone! ” she sobbed. “He died in my arms. I 
was alone with him. He looked around the room, and 
said : ‘ Is it a pestilence, that I am thus abandoned ? ’ and, 
gentlemen, tears were in his eyes when he died.” 

They entered the little room where the Abbe Campan 
lay. His eyes were open, and tears stood on his pale 
cheeks. Bourette fell on his knees, and buried his face in 
the sheets; but Faujas stood and looked calmly down 
upon the dead, and then bending the knee for a moment 
he left the room. Bourette, amid his sobs, did not even 
hear the door close. 

Faujas went directly to the Bishop’s residence. In the 
ante-room he met Surin, the Secretary, with a bundle of 
papers. 

“ You wish to see Monseigneur, do you ? ” he said, with 
his everlasting smile. “ It is unfortunate, for he has 
closed his door, and given orders that he is not to be 
disturbed.” 

“ I will wait, then,” answered Faujas, quietly. “ Have 
the kindness, however, to let him know that I am here.” 

“ I think you had better return to-morrow. Monseigneur 
has several persons with him.” 

But the Abbe took a chair. At that moment the 
Bishop opened his door, and seemed annoyed at seeing a 
visitor, whom at first he pretended not to recognize. 

“ My dear boy,” he said to Surin, “ when you have 
finished classifying those papers, come to me. I have a 
letter to dictate to you.” 

Then turning to the Priest, who had risen respectfully, 
he said : 


168 THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 

“Ah ! Is that you ? I am glad to see you. Come in 
here. You never disturb me/’ 

The private room of the Bishop was large, and would 
have been gloomy, but for the wood-fire which crackled on 
the hearth in summer as well as winter. The carpets and 
thick curtains kept out every breath of air, while the Bishop 
lived in a state of chilly seclusion, leaving to the Abbe 
Fenil all the care of his diocese. He adored literature, 
and it was believed that he had secretly translated Horace. 
Certain classical allusions occasionally escaped his lips, 
which were rather startling than otherwise. 

“You see I am alone,” he said, as he sank into his 
chair ; “ but not being quite well, gave orders that no one 
should be admitted.” 

There was a resigned impatience in his manner, and 
when Faujas told him of the death of the Cure, he rose to 
his feet indignantly — 

“ What ! ” he exclaimed, “ my dear, good Campan gone, 
and I not told, that I might say farewell ! Ah ! you were 
right, my dear friend, when you said that I was not the 
real Master here. My kindness is abused.” 

“ Monseigneur,” said Faujas, “ I am always at your 
service.” 

The Bishop nodded. 

“Yes, yes, I know,” he answered, “you have an ex- 
cellent heart. Only there will be no end of confusion if I 
break with F6nil, and I shall be crazed with it all ! Yet, 
if I were quite sure that you could rid me of him — that 
he would not come back in a week and put his foot on 
my throat, I — •” 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


169 


Faujas smiled faintly ; but tears actually stood in the 
Bishop’s eyes. 

“I am afraid/’ he said, dropping into a chair, “I am 
actually afraid. It is he who wore poor Campan into his 
grave, and prevented me from knowing that he was dying, 
lest I should go and close his eyes. But I like peace. 
Fenil is very useful to me in the diocese.” He became 
calmer. “After all,” he said, “ there is no great hurry.” 

The Abbe Faujas took a chair quietly. 

“ No — and yet you will be obliged to nominate a Cure 
for Saint-Saturnin, to replace the Abbe Campan.” 

The Bishop put his hands to his forehead with a 
despairing gesture. 

“ You are right,” he sighed. “I did not think of that. 
The good man had no idea of the trouble he was giving 
me by dying so unexpectedly. I promised you the place, 
did I not?” 

The Abbe bowed. 

“Then, my dear fellow, you will save me. You will 
allow me to retract my word. You know ' how Fenil 
hates you. The success of your Institution has made him 
wild. He swears that you shall never win Plassans over 
to your side. You know I always speak frankly to you. 
The other day I uttered your name as Campan’s successor, 
and Fenil flew into a most terrible passion, and made me 
swear that one of his proteges should have the position — 
the Abbe Chardon. You know him, a most worthy man. 
Now, my friend, give up this notion to please me. I will 
make you adequate amends, I do assure you.” 


170 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


The Priest was very grave. After a brief silence he 
said slowly : 

“ You know, Monseigneur, that I have no personal 
ambition ; I prefer to live in seclusion, and, personally, I 
should be entirely willing to give up this Cur6, only I am 
not my own master. I am compelled to satisfy those pro- 
tectors who have had confidence in me. Let me advise 
you, Monseigneur, to reflect before you come to a decision 
which later you are sure to regret.” 

Although Faujas spoke with great humility, the Bishop 
felt the hidden menace of these words. He walked up 
and down the room, a prey to mental anguish. Then 
turning to his companion he said, quickly : 

“I wished to avoid all these explanations, but, as you 
insist, I will speak frankly. In short, the Abbe F6nil 
reproaches you for many things. I think I told you that 
he made inquiry at Besan^on, and that he there learned 
the outrageous stories you have heard and explained. I 
know all your merits, your repentance and your retreat, 
but what is to be done ? The Grand Vicar has these arms 
against you, and he is pitiless in the use of them. I often 
do not know how to defend you. When the Minister 
asked me to accept you in my diocese, I said frankly that 
your position would be a most difficult one. He urged 
me, and said you knew that, and I consented, and now you 
ask impossibilities at my hand.” 

The Abbe did not flinch. He held his head higher than 
ever, and, looking the Bishop full in the face, he said : 

“ But you gave me your word, Monseigneur.” 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


171 


u True — true ! I do not deny it. But I will tell you 
something else, that you may not look on me as a mere 
weathercock. You pretend that the Minister ardently de- 
sires your nomination to the Cure of Saint-Saturnin. Well, 
then, I wrote and sent one of my friends to the Minister, who 
laughed in his face, and said that he did not even know 
you. The Minister denies, do you understand ? that you 
are a protege of his. If you wish, you can see the letter in 
which he expresses himself with considerable severity in 
regard to vou.” 

And he opened a drawer, but the Abbe rose, and with 
a faint smile of mingled sarcasm and pity, he murmured: 
“ Ah ! Monseigneur ! Monseigneur ! ” 

He waited a moment and then added : 

“ I give you back your promise, and at some future time 
remember what I now say, that I have worked more for 
you than myself, in this affair, and that I warned you.” 

He went toward the door, but the Bishop said, pettishly : 
“ Can’t you explain yourself, my dear Faujas? I know 
that since the election of the Marquis de Langrifort that 
I am not especially favored in Paris. Do you know that 
I am accused of his nomination?” 

“ Yes, I know it,” answered the Priest, dryly. 

“It is very absurd. I never meddle with politics. I 
live among my books. Fenil did it all ! I told him twenty 
times that he would make trouble for me in Paris.” 

He checked himself and colored, at having allowed these 
words to pass his lips so incautiously. Faujas came back 
and drew up a chair, and in his full, deep voice said : 

11 


172 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


“ Monseigneur, you have just uttered your own condem- 
nation of your Grand Vicar. I need say not one other 
word. This is not the only trouble he will make for you. 
I have friends in Paris, and I know that the election of 
the Marquis prejudiced the Government against you. You 
are looked upon — right or wrong — as the cause of the 
opposition manifested at Plassans, where the Minister has 
especial reasons for desiring a majority. If at the next 
election, the Legitimist candidate is again triumphant, I 
am inclined to think that your tranquil days will be few 
and short.” 

• “ Bless my soul ! ” said the unfortunate Bishop. “What 
can I do? I have not the smallest influence one way or 
another. I wish Fenil was Bishop in my place. I would 
like to retire into a Monastery with my books. You say 
that the Ministry is embittered toward me, do you?” 
Faujas did not speak. Contempt breathed in every line 
of his rigid face. 

“If I thought Fenil would like it, I would make you 
Cure of Saint-Saturnin at once. But you are not popular! 
It is a great pity, but it is true; you are not popular!” 
Fauj as could curb himself no longer. 
u Ah!” said he, “you cannot forget that I came here 
preceded by scandalous tales, and wearing a ragged soutane. 
A man under suspicion is always denied until he triumphs! 
Help me to succeed, Monseigneur, and you will see that I 
have friends in Paris.” 

The Bishop, surprised that this flice and figure of stone 
was at last aroused, looked at him in silence. Faujas con- 
tinued, more meekly: 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


173 


“ I admit that I need much forgiveness, but my friends 
are only waiting, until my position is entirely assured, to 
thank you for your goodness.” 

Monseigneur was still silent. His knowledge of human 
nature was mostly acquired through books. He knew his 
own excessive weakness, and was at times heartily ashamed 
of it, but soon found consolation among his books. In his 
life of literary epicurean he mocked at the ambitious men 
who crowded around and struggled for the shreds of his 
power. 

“ You are a tenacious personage, certainly,” he said, with 
a smile. “ I made you a promise, and I will keep it. In 
the last six months you have made yourself liked. The 
ladies speak of you in the highest terms. The Cure of 
Saint-Saturnin is yours in payment of the debt I owe you, 
for your efforts to inaugurate this great charity in honor of 
the Virgin.” 

The Bishop’s manner was all his own once more, grace- 
ful and beneficent. The Abbe Surin at that moment ap- 
peared. 

“No, my child,” said Monseigneur, “I shall not dictate 
that letter now; I do not need you.” 

“ The Abbe Fenil is in the ante-room,” murmured the 
handsome young Priest. 

“ Let him wait ! ” was the reply, and the Bishop turned 
to Faujas. 

“ You will go out this way,” he said, as he opened 
a door, concealed by a portiere. 

“Fenil/’ he continued, “ will be utterly furious, and you 


174 THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 

must promise to protect me if he becomes unbearable, for it 
is on you I shall lean henceforward.” 

The Bishop waved his white hand, and returned to his 
cabinet. The Abbe was thunderstruck at the feminine 
ease with which Monseigneur had changed masters. 

The following Thursday, about ten o’clock, just as the 
Rougon salon was most crowded, the Abbe Faujas appeared. 
He was magnificent and imposing, in a soutane as lustrous 
as satin. His usually grave face was lighted up by a faint, 
sweet smile. 

“Ah! the dear Cure!” cried Madame de Condamin. 
But the mistress of the house rushed forward. She took 
the Abbe’s hands in hers, and led him to the centre of the 
room. 

“What a delightful surprise!” she said, over and over 
again. “ It is a full century since I saw you, and I am 
glad to find that you have not forgotten your friends.” 

He smiled in return. His welcome was a perfect ova- 
tion, a rustling of silk and murmuring of flattering voices. 
Madame Delangre came forward to greet him, as did 
Madame Rastoil, and to congratulate him on the official 
nomination which had been made that morning. The 
Mayor and the Judge shook hands with him cordially. 

“ He is a smart one ! ” murmured de Condamin. “ I 
read him at once. He and Madame Rougon are deep in 
some plot. I have seen him dozens of times slipping in 
here between daylight and dark ! ” 

This triumphal entree was the event of the evening. 
The Abbe was surrounded by a triple row of skirts, and 


TIIE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


175 


talked most agreeably. F6licite having questioned him 
directly, he said in reply that he had no intention of 
leaving the house where lie had spent the last three years 
in quiet and peace. Marthe was there among the ladies, 
as quiet and reserved as usual. She smiled at the Abbe, 
but did not approach him. When she heard him say that 
he had no intention of leaving his present residence, 
she colored deeply, and rose to go into the next room, as 
if suffocated by the heat. 

Madame Paloque sneered and said to Monsieur de Con- 
damin, but loud enough to be heard by others: 

“ I should not think it was necessary to meet him here, 
when she can see him every day at home.” 

De Condamin laughed, but the others put on a stately 
air. Madame Paloque, seeing that she had made a mis- 
take, pretended to have been in jest. 

Great curiosity was felt as to whether the Abbe Fenil 
would appear, but the Abbe Surin, with a knowing smile, 
said he was ill and would not venture out, and then added 
in a whisper that there had been a terrible scene between 
the Bishop and the Grand Vicar. 

The Abbe Bourette now came in, and people examined 
him anxiously, for every one knew that he had expected 
to be the Cure of Saint-Saturnin. 

As soon as he saw Faujas he took him by both hands. 
“I have just been to see you,” he exclaimed. “Your 
mother told me you were here. I am glad to find you, 
and congratulate you.” 

The Abbe rose, a little disturbed at this unexpected 
cordiality. 


176 THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 

“ Yes,” he murmured, “ I was compelled to accept, un- 
deserving as I knew myself to be. I at first refused ; 
but — ” 

Bourette led the Abbe aside, and, lowering his voice, 
said : 

“ I know all about it. The Bishop told me. It seems 
that Fenil would not hear of me. Pie would have set fire 
to the diocese — these are his own words — if I were nomi- 
nated. My crime is, that I was poor Cam pan’s friend. He 
wanted Chardon, and the Bishop insisted on you. This is 
the true story. Did you know it before ? ” 

“ Not in detail.” 

“Well, this is precisely what occurred. I have the 
facts from Monseigneur. But I am to have something 
instead. It will be all right,” and his large face was quite 
jubilant. 

Madame Paloque went up to him. 

“You will not be in the Confessional to-morrow, will 

* O 9 ) 

you, sir ; 

The Priest, since the illness of the Abb6 Campan, had 
taken the Confessional in the Chapel le Saint-Michel, the 
largest and most convenient in the church, especially 
reserved for the Cure. At first Father Bourette did not 
understand ; but he suddenly remembered that he must 
relinquish this, in favor of the new-made Cure. 

“ I ask,” continued Madame Paloque, “ if you will go 
back to your old place in the Chapelle des Sainte-Anges?” 

“Certainly,” he said, “you will find me there; but 
wrap yourself well, dear lady, for it is very damp and 
chilly.” 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


177 


He loved the Confessional at Saint-Michel, into which 
the sun shone in the afternoon, and up to this time he felt 
no envy for the Abbe Faujas ; but this removal over- 
whelmed him with regret. It seemed to him that his life 
was a failure. He said little more, and went away early, 
saddened and disheartened. 

The Abbe Faujas was one of the last to leave. Rougon 
and he were talking gravely of the necessity of religious 
sentiments in a wisely managed government, while each 
lady who departed made them a deep reverence. 

“ Monsieur,” said Felicite, graciously, “you know you 
are my daughter’s escort.” 

* He rose. Marthe was waiting for him near the door. 
The night was excessively dark. In the street they were, 
so to speak, blinded by the obscurity. They crossed the 
Square without a word to each other; but just as the Abbe 
was putting the key in the door, Marthe touched his arm. 

“ Wait a moment,” she said, in an agitated voice. “ I 
want you to do for me what you once refused. Father 
Bourette does not understand me at all. You alone can 
assist me.” 

He waved her aside, and when he had opened the door 
and lighted the little lamp which Rose had left for them 
at the foot of the stairs, he said, as he went slowly up : 

“I will think of what you say. We will talk of it 
later.” 

She could have fallen at his feet and kissed them. She 
stood motionless until she heard him lock his door. 

She moved about her room as if in a dream, not hearing 


178 THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 

one word her husband was saying. He had been to the 
club, and had heard any amount of gossip. 

“ Our Abbe has routed Father Bourette, and I am glad 
of it! It is droll to see these fellows quarrel among 
themselves, and I can see into a mill-stone as far as any 
one — ” 

He fell asleep muttering a disconnected phrase, while 
Marthe, with wide-open eyes fixed on the ceiling, listened 
to the soft trailing sound of the Abbe’s slippers as he 
moved about the room. 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


179 


CHAPTER XII. 

THE NEW CLUE. 

W HEN summer came again, the Abbe and his mother 
resumed their evenings on the terrace. Mouret 
had grown very morose, and refused to play cards with the 
old lady. He sat on his chair yawning and half asleep. 
Marthe at last said to him : 

(i My dear, why do you not go to your club?” 

He went, after that, oftener than before, and when he 
came in he found his wife and the Abbe in the same 
places, and Madame Faujas always there, in her watchful 
attitude. 

Whenever any one spoke to Mouret of the new Cur6, 
he replied in terms of the highest praise. Not even 
Madame Paloque could elicit an acrid word — not even 
when she interrupted him, in his praise of the Abbe, to 
ask after his wife in the most pointed manner. Nor did 
Madame Rougon succeed in reading the secret sorrow 
which she fancied existed under the easy, good-natured 
air, which he assumed in speaking to her. This inveterate 
gossip had become excessively reticent as to his own 
affairs. 

“ Your husband is more reasonable,” said Felicite, one 
day, to her daughter. 

Marthe looked surprised. 


180 


THE CONQUEST OP PLASSANS. 


“ I have nothing to complain of,” she answered. 

“ I know that, my dear. Bat you said he did not like 
the Abbe.” 

“Oh, no, indeed. You misunderstood me. My husband 
is on the best of terms with the Abbe Faujas. They 
like each other very much.” 

Marthe was astonished at the persistency with which 
people were determined to believe that her husband and 
the Priest were on bad terms. The ladies whom she met 
at the Institution often asked her questions which dis- 
turbed her. The truth was, that she had never been so 
happy in her life. She lived now in the hope that the 
Abbe would allow her to come to him as her confessor. 
Tears were often in her eyes, and she knew not why. 

“What is the matter?” her husband asked, anxiously, 
when, one night, he found her in the garden, all in 
tears. 

“ Nothing,” she said, with a gentle smile ; “ nothing at 
all. I am very happy ! ” 

He shrugged his shoulders, and turned his attention to 
trimming his hedge of box, on which he prided himself. 
Marthe breathed in the delicate odor, and tears again 
choked her utterance. She was forty, and weeping over 
her vanished youth. 

All this time the Abbe Faujas bore his new dignities, 
his hat and his breviary, bravely. 

At the Cathedral he had won the respect of all the 
clergy. The Abbe Fenil, having failed to puzzle him 
in some questions of detail, seemed disposed to let his 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


181 


adversary alone, who, however, was too shrewd to triumph 
openly. He knew very well that Plassans was not yet 
his, and that, in fact, a large number of the social mag- 
nates continued to feel a certain distrust of him. His 
political opinions were questioned; he answered that he 
had none — that he was on the side of all honest people. 

“ No, no/ 7 he said, when he was urged to call on Mon- 
sieur Rastoil, and it was known that he had refused two 
invitations to dine at the Prefect’s. He rarely went out, 
but seemed to make his observations from the central 
point of the Mourets’, which commanded the rival camps. 
Each Tuesday he watched the sunset from his windows, 
and before closing them would bow amiably right and 
left to the groups assembled in both gardens. 

One Tuesday Dr. Porquier called to him from the 
Rastoil garden. This was the first time that anything of 
the kind had occurred. 

“ Excuse me, sir; but can I see you for half an hour?” 

Dr. Porquier was in trouble. His son had been arrested 
in a house of bad reputation, and, worse still, was accused 
of having led away the Maffre boys, both much younger 
than himself. 

“ Pshaw ! ” said de Condamin, with his hateful laugh, 
“ boys will be boys, and there is little use in making such 
a row, because young men play baccarat and have a girl 
or two with them! ” 

The Doctor turned away in disgust and went into the 
Mouret garden, where he talked for half an hour with the 
Abbe. 


182 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


“ Monsieur Maffre,” said the unhappy father, “ is very 
bitter against me, and I am anxious to have an interview 
with him, and convince him that I do not encourage my 
son in his vicious habits, as he asserts. Will you ask him 
to see me?” 

The Abbe courteously agreed, and entered the Rastoil 
garden to make the request of the Judge, who sat at the 
side of Madame Rastoil. 

When the matter was satisfactorily concluded, Madame 
Rastoil thanked the Abbe for his sermon of the previous 
Sunday. He listened to her graciously, and withdrew. 

The next day the Abbe was in the garden, overlooking 
two workmen who were putting the fountain in order, 
when Rose hurried down the walk. 

“Sir,” she said, “ the Judge wishes to see you.” 

The Abb6 hurried in. He intended to take his guest 
up-stairs, but Rose had already opened the door of the 
salon, with a muttered apology that the room was not 
dusted. 

As she passed the dining-room, her master spoke to her. 

“Look here! Rose,” he said, “you had best give my 
dinner to-night to your Cure, and if he should not happen 
to have blankets enough on his bed, take them from 
mine! ” 

Rose glanced at her mistress, who was sewing at the 
window, while waiting until the sun had left the terrace. 

Marthe was embroidering an altar cloth for the Cathe- 
dral. The Board of Managers wished to give the entire 
furniture of the altar. Madame de Condamin had ordered 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 183 

from Paris a magnificent silver crucifix, while Madame 
Rastoil and Madame Delangre assumed the candelabras. 

In the salon the Abbd was talking with the Judge, 
telling him that Dr. Porquier was a good man and a 
Christian, cut to the heart by his son’s conduct. 

The Judge finally admitted that he had been a little , 
hasty. 

“And your sons,” said the Abb§, “send them to me. I 
should like to see them.” 

The Judge smiled bitterly. 

“You need not be concerned, sir; the scamps will not 
begin again in a hurry. They have been locked in their 
rooms for three days, on bread and water. I was sorely 
tempted to give them a thrashing.” 

The Abbe remembered that Mouret had told him 
that this man had killed his wife by his severity and 
avarice. 

“ No,” he said, gently, “ that is not the best way to 
manage those boys ; one is eighteen, I think, and the other 
twenty. They are no longer children ; they should have 
some amusements.” 

The Judge was silent with surprise. 

“ But you would not allow them to smoke? You would 
not permit them to go to the cafe ? ” he asked after a while. 

“ Unquestionably I would,” answered the Priest, with a 
smile. “ I assure you these young fellows should be 
allowed to meet together for a game of billiards and a cigar. 
They think they can do anything, if you will tolerate 
nothing. Only you must not think that I wish them to 


184 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


lounge at the cafes. I would like to see them have a little 
club of their own, such as I have seen.” 

And he unfolded his plan. The Judge was delighted. 
“ Good ! good ! A worthy pendant to the Society of the 
Virgin. My dear Abbe, we must do this.” 

“If the idea seems to you a good one,” said the Priest, 
as he opened the door for the Judge, “mention it to your 
friends. I will speak to the Mayor. We will meet at the 
Cathedral after vespers on Sunday, and discuss it at length.” 
On Sunday the gentlemen met in a small room next the 
vestry. There was a good deal of enthusiasm. The young 
men’s club was decided on, but there was a good deal of 
discussion as to the name. Monsieur Maffre insisted on the 
Society of Jesus. 

“ That will not do,” at last exclaimed the Priest, impa- 
tiently. “ Do you not see that it will not do to thrust 
religion down the throats of these boys? We wish to 
amuse them, and let better things come later and naturally.” 
The Judge looked at the Mayor so anxiously, that every 
one involuntarily smiled, and the Judge gently touched 
Faujas on the arm, who calmed down and said more 

“ You can trust me, gentlemen, I think. Suppose we 
select the simplest of names. Let it be ‘ The Young Men’s 
Club.’ ” 

Monsieur Pastoil demurred, saying that this was 
common-place, and then he spoke of the Abbe being at the 
head of a Provisionary Committee. 

“ I do not think that is precisely the Curb’s idea,” 
murmured the Mayor. 



THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


185 


**No,” said the Abbe, “my soutane would appall them; 
we should have only pious youths, and it is not for them 
that we need organize a club. We wish to bring in 
the wanderers ; is not that so ? ” 

“ Most certainly/’ answered the Mayor. 

“ Then let me keep in the background. Send your 
sons all to me to-morrow, gentlemen, at this same hour.” 

The young men met as was agreed. The plan was 
quickly matured, and in three weeks the club was installed 
in an old convent not far from the Cathedral, much to the 
astonishment of the populace of Plassans. But after the 
first wonder had passed over, the club had a great success. 
The Bishop accepted the position of Honorary President, 
and occasionally dropped in of an evening with his Secre- 
tary, and took a glass of gooseberry syrup. 

This settled the question, and no young man of social 
aspirations dared laugh at the club. 

Guillaume Porquier was a Bohemian by nature however, 
and he derided it openly for a time, though secretly 
wounded that he was not a member. His father had for- 
bidden his applying, feeling sure that he would be rejected. 

He disobeyed this parental injunction, however, and sent 
in his name secretly. Then ensued a great commotion. 
The young men did not wish to wound the good Doctor, 
and Guillaume was quietly advised to withdraw his appli- 
cation. 

Not he ! He laughed in their faces, and bade them go 
on and put him up. 

“ I should like to see,” he said, “ how many of you will 
dare to vote against me ! ” 


186 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


Finally the young men in their consternation applied to 
the Abbe Faujas, whom they all adored. He always went to 
the club every afternoon between five and six, and walked 
through the rooms, saying a few words here and there, and 
taking a seat in the reading-room and looking over the 
Parisian papers. Sometimes he looked on at a game of 
chess, and the young men’s highest words of praise were: 

“ Who would ever think him a Priest ! ” 

When the Mayor’s son laid before the Abbe the new 
complication, he promised, to take the matter in his own 
hands, and the next day sent for the Doctor, who was in 
utter despair. The Priest advised him to send his son 
away for a month or two into the country, and when he 
was gone the application for membership would naturally 
be shelved, and need not be again revived. 

When the youth was fairly off and the affair all quieted 
down, the Doctor, seeing the Abbe in the garden one day, 
called to him from next door: 

“Ah ! my dear sir, I am very grateful. May I come in 
and shake hands with you ? ” 

And without waiting for a reply, he disappeared. 

The Abbe, with a patient smile, went toward the little 
gate which opened on the lane. 

The Doctor was already there. 

“ It is nailed up,” said the Priest, “ but one nail is loose, 
and the other would be easily removed if one had any sort 
of a tool.” 

He looked around and saw a spade. With this he easily 
opened the gate, having drawn the bolts. 


THE CONQUEST OP PLASSANS. 


187 


He and the Doctor then walked up and down the lane. 
Monsieur Maffre, who was in the Rastoil garden, opened 
that gate also, and thought it very amusing to enter this 
deserted lane. 

When the Abbe left them, the Judge and the Doctor 
looked into the Mouret garden with some curiosity. 

Mouret, who was tying up his tomatoes, saw them as he 
raised his eyes. He was overwhelmed with astonishment. 

“Upon my word ! ” he said, half aloud, “this was all 
that was lacking. The Priest is bringing these rivals into 
my garden ! ” 

12 


188 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


REBELLION. 


ERGE was then nineteen. His room was on the 


second floor, opposite the Abbe’s. He lived almost 
as if he were in a cloister. 

“I intend to throw your books into the fire,” said his 
father, impatiently. “ You will ruin your health.” 

And in fact the young man was so nervous in tempera- 
ment that the least excitement made him ill, and confined 
him to his room for days. Rose inundated him with 
tisanes and messes of all kinds, and when her master went 
to stir up his son, as he said, the cook bade him depart. 

“ Do let him alone,” she would say; “you are too rough 
with him, sir. He is the image of his mother, and you 
can’t understand him, or her either, for that matter!” 

Serge smiled. His father, seeing him so delicate, had 
hesitated in regard to his future career. He wished him to 
study Law in Paris, but he doubted if he were sufficiently 
strong. He wished to fire the boy with a certain ambition. 
His Rougon cousins had done well for themselves in the 
capital, why could not he? Each time the youth seemed 
stronger, the father fixed on the next month for his depar- 
ture, but the trunk was yet unpacked. A little cough 
stopped all proceedings. 

Marthe, with her gentle indifference, said: “He is not 



THE CONQUEST OP PLASSANS. 


189 


yet twenty. He is too young to go to Paris. He is not 
wasting his time here, either!” 

Serge went to Mass with his mother. He was of a 
religious nature, very grave and very tender. Doctor 
Porquier having recommended much out-door exercise, he 
took a great fancy to Botany, made long excursions, and 
spent hours in drying and classifying the plants he brought 
home. The Abbe Faujas had become his greatest friend. 
The Priest had botanized himself at one time, and gave 
the youth certain practical advice. They went sometimes 
together in search of some especial plant, which the Priest 
said ought to grow in that locality. 

And when Serge was ill, the Abbe paid him a visit 
regularly every morning. And when the boy was able, 
he as regularly knocked at the Priest’s door. 

Mouret did not like this intimacy. 

“ What does it mean?” he would ask, fretfully. “He 
and the Cure are always whispering in corners, and I 
swear I won’t have it! The boy shall go off to Paris, ill 
or well! I should very much prefer him to spend his 
time with women.” 

“Oh ! Monsieur! ” cried Rose, in horror. 

“Yes, with women, I say; and if this goes on much 
longer, I will take him there myself.” 

Serge, of course, was a member of the club, but went 
there little, preferring the peace and solitude of his own 
room, and but for Faujas would probably never have gone 
at all. 

Mouret, as soon as he heard that the boy was with the 


190 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


Priest, swore that he would pack him off to Paris the very 
next Monday. This time the arrangements were all 
made and the trunk packed, when Serge, who had gone 
out to spend his last morning in the fields, was caught in 
a shower, and returned wet to his skin. For three weeks 
he was confined to his bed, and his convalescence lasted 
two long, weary months. For days he was so weak that 
he lay motionless on his bed — his arms helplessly extended 
and his face like wax. 

“ It is all your fault! ” cried the cook to Mouret. “ If 
he dies, it will be on your conscience ! 77 

All the time of his son’s illness, Mouret roamed in 
gloomy restlessness about the house, and waylaid the 
physician on his daily visits. When he knew that Serge 
was out of danger, he slipped into his room, but Rose as 
quickly thrust him out. He was not needed there; the 
boy was not strong enough to bear any noise. After this 
Mouret was more dreary than ever, and took no interest 
in anything. 

When he crossed the vestibule, he could hear the Abbe’s 
voice in his son’s room. 

“How is he to-day, sir?” Mouret would ask, timidly, 
when the Priest came down into the garden. 

“He is doing very well, but needs great care.” 

And he read his Breviary, while the father, with a hoe 
in his hand, followed him from path to path, seeking for 
some news of “the lad.” 

As time wore on, Mouret noticed that the Priest never 
left the sick-room. And when the father ran up hastily 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


191 


at odd moments, when he knew all the women of the 
household to be busy elsewhere, he invariably found 
Faujas sitting at the side of the bed, ready to perform 
any little services for him. 

9/ 

All the house was enveloped in the hush of a cloister-— 
everybody spoke in whispers — and it seemed to Mouret 
that he even perceived the odor of incense and that he 
heard the murmur of voices overhead, as if mass were 
being celebrated. 

“What on earth are they doing?” he murmured. “It 
is not extreme unction, for the boy is getting well!” 

The father, nevertheless, was very anxious about Serge. 
He looked like a girl; his eyes were enormous, and blue 
as the sky; his smile was sweet, and he smiled amid the 
most cruel agony. Mouret said no more of Paris. 

One afternoon he went up-stairs softly. Through the 
half-open door he saw Serge sitting in a great chair, with 
the sunshine full upon him. The boy was looking up at 
the sky, while big tears rolled down his cheeks. Plis 
mother was leaning over him and sobbing convulsively. 
They both turned as he entered, but made no attempt to 
conceal their tears. 

“ My dear father,” said Serge, “ I have a favor to ask. 
My mother says you will be displeased, and that you will 
refuse your consent to that which I desire with my whole 
heart. I wish to enter a Seminary.” 

He clasped his hands with feverish entreaty. 

“You ! You ! ” murmured Mouret. 

And he looked at Marthe, who turned away her head* 


192 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


He went to the window, and then to the bed, on which 
he dropped, as if all his strength were gone. 

“Father,” continued Serge, after a long silence, “I 
have been very near unto God in this long illness. I have 
sworn to be altogether His. I assure you, all my joy is 
there ! ” 

Mouret made a gesture of supreme discouragement, and 
said, in a low voice : 

“If I had the least courage, I would tie up two shirts 
in a pocket-handkerchief, and go off.” 

He rose, went to the window and stood there, beating 
with his fingers against the glass. 

Serge began to speak. 

“No need, my boy,” said Mouret. “Be a Priest, if you 
choose.” 

And he left the room. The next day, without telling 
any one, he went off to Marseilles, and spent eight days 
with his son Octave. He came back, careworn and aged, 
having gained little consolation from Octave, whom he 
found living a very uproarious life — overwhelmed by 
debts, drinking, and hiding a mistress in his wardrobe; 
but the father told none of this at home, where he now 
spent all of his time. He felt no interest in the outside 
world, and lost all heart for the speculations of which he 
was once so proud. Rose noticed that he never spoke, and 
rarely bowed to the Abb6. 

“ Do you know, sir,” she said, boldly, one day, “ that 
you are very rude to the good Cure? You turned your 
back just now when he passed. If you are angry with 


THE CONQUEST OF PEASSANS. 


193 


him about the lad, you are to blame, for the Cure did not 
wish him to enter the Seminary. I heard them talking. 
Oh! what a melancholy house this is! You never speak, 
and when you sit at the table, it is as if you were around 
a grave.” 

Mouret left the room and went into the garden, but he 
did not escape from the cook; she followed him. 

“ You ought to be glad to see the child on his feet again. 
He eat a cutlet yesterday, and wanted another, the dear 
cherubim! But you do not care, do you? You wanted 
to make a Pagan of him, I suppose, like yourself. You 
need his prayers, sir, let me tell you that. I should think 
you would be glad, but your heart is of stone, I do believe. 
How lovely he will look in a soutane ! ” 

Then Mouret went into a room that he called his office 
— a large, bare room, with a table and two chairs. This 
place became his refuse when he could bear the talk of his 
servant no longer. But his only solace was his garden, 
to which he devoted much time. 

Marthe took no notice of the change in her husband. 
He sometimes did not speak to her for a week, but she 
asked not a question. Day by day she separated herself 
more from her surroundings, and seemed to feel that the 
house was pleasanter, now that she saw less of Mouret, and 
was spared his continual chatter. When he looked at her, 
with troubled eyes, she would smile back at him, totally 
unconscious that those eyes were swimming in tears. 

The day that Serge entered the Seminary, Mouret was 
left alone in the house with Desiree, which was now no 


194 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


uncommon thing. It was necessary for some one to care- 
fully watch over this tall girl, lest she should fall into the 
cistern or set fire to the house, playing with matches, like 
any child of six. 

When Marthe returned, she found the house empty and 
the doors all open. She went out on the terrace, and saw, 
at the end of an alley, her husband playing with the young 
girl. 

He was sitting flat on the ground shovelling the gravel 
with a wooden spoon into a little wagon which Desiree 
w r as drawing with a string. 

“ Get up ! Get up ! ” said the child. 

“Wait a moment!” answered her father, patiently, 
“ The wagon is not full ; horses always stand until the 
wagon is full 1 ” 

Then she kicked and pawed the ground like a restless 
horse, and suddenly pranced off with a shout of ringing 
laughter. The wagon tipped over; and when the girl had 
run all around the garden she came back, crying : 

“Fill it again ! Fill it again !” 

Mouret meekly obeyed. Marthe stood looking on with 
a vague feeling of discomfort. This empty house, these 
wide-opened doors, this man playing with this simple child 
saddened her without her knowing why. She turned away 
just as Rose glanced out of her kitchen with the loud 
exclamation of — 

“ Good Lord ! Look at master ! ” 

According to the kind surmises of his friends — small 
speculators like himself — Mouret was “in a bad way.” 


195 


THE CONQUEST OE PLASSANS. 

His hair had grown very gray, he walked unsteadily, and 
his satirical remarks were no longer the dread of the town. 
People thought he had lost money through some disastrous 
business enterprise* 

Madame Paloque said, as she saw him pass : 

“ Well ! well ! he is as thin as a rail !” And when the 
Abbe Faujas followed a few minutes later, she delightedly 
exclaimed : 

“And the Cure is growing fat ! If the two eat out of 
the same dish, poor Mouret must have all the bones as his 
share ! ” 

She laughed, and others joined in the laugh. The Abbe 
Faujas was indeed superb with his fine soutane and black 
gloves* He had a peculiar and not altogether pleasing 
smile, when Madame Condamin complimented him on his 
fine appearance* These ladies liked to see him carefully 
dressed ; he, however, would have preferred to fight with 
bare arms and in rags, if need be. 

But when he was in the least careless, Madame liougon 
took him to task, arid with a smile he went out to buy 
silk stockings, a new hat, and new silk sash, of which he 
wore out an innumerable succession, so great was the strain 
of his huge form upon them. 

All the women were now with him, and defended him 
against the villanous stories which had by no means died 
away, although no one could trace them to their source. 
They thought him rough at times, but this did not dis- 
please them, particularly in the Confessional, when they 
liked to feel this iron hand on their heads. 


196 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


“My dear,” said Madame de Condamin to Mar the, “he 
scolded me horribly yesterday. I think he would have 
liked to beat me.” 

And she laughed, with huge enjoyment. And here let 
us say that she had noticed Marthe’s very lips turn white, 
when she made certain confidences, and she divined her 
jealousy and took a wicked pleasure in torturing her. 

When the Abbe had fully organized “The Young Men’s 
Club,” he became the intimate friend of all the youths 
connected with it, and showed toward them none of the 
roughness which he lavished on the women, knowing very 
well that they would not bear it. 

If the Abbe had won the hearts of the women and 
children, he had made but little advance with the fathers 
and husbands. These grave persons continued to distrust 
him and held themselves a little aloof. 

The Prefect said many a harsh thing of him, while Mon- 
sieur Delangre, without defending him, said in a knowing 
way that it was better to wait a while before making up 
their minds. And at Monsieur liastoil’s, the Abbe had 
become a constant subject of dispute — the son and his 
mother wearying the poor man with their eulogies. 

“I admit it!” he cried. “I admit that he has every 
good quality under the sun. I have invited him to din- 
ner — and he has refused to come. I can’t drag him in by 
the hair of his head. Now, for Heaven’s sake, let me 
alone ! ” 

“But,” urged Madame Rastoil, “you are barely civil 
to him when you meet. lie is probably offended by your 
manner.” 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 197 

“ Precisely,” added her son ; “ he sees that your manner 
is different to him from what it is to others.” 

Monsieur Rastoil shrugged his shoulders, and said that 
he and Bourden both thought the Abbe was leaning toward 
Bonapartism. “He is cultivating certain relations with the 
Mayor.” 

“But so are you, sir!” interposed his son. “You had 
better say frankly, that you can’t endure the Abbe Faujas ! ” 

And everybody was out of temper for the next week at 
the Rastoil mansion, where in that time Fenil did not ap- 
pear, being kept at home by gout. The two Abbes, Bou- 
rette and Surin, agreed with Madame Rastoil, while the 
master of the house, sustained by Monsieur Bourden, said 
gravely that they could not afford to compromise their 
political position by showing cordiality to a man who 
concealed his opinions with such extreme caution. 

Young Rastoil, out of pure mischief, fell into a way of 
going to the little gate into the lane when he wished to 
speak to the Priest, and this lane by degrees became neu- 
tral ground. Dr. Porquier and the Judge also adopted the 
same way of holding communication with the Abbe. 
Sometimes these two small doors were wide open all an 
afternoon, and the Abbe walked up and down the lane, or 
leaned against the warm and sunny wall, greeting with a 
smile and shake of the hand the various persons who came 
there to meet him. Monsieur Pequeur des Saulaies never 
crossed the threshold however, while Rastoil and de Bour- 
den were equally determined not to enter the lane. The 
Priest’s little band of courtiers rarely invaded the 


198 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


Mouret garden, but would occasionally look in with some 
curiosity. 

The Abbe no longer watched the window uneasily, where 
the flash of Olympe’s eyes was always to be seen ! She 
and her husband were still in ambuscade behind the red 
curtains, devoured by a mad desire to go down, gather the 
fruit, enjoy the fresh air, and converse with the gay world. 
They would lean out of the window and then retire in 
obedience to an imperative look from the Priest, only to 
steal back again, and with pale faces watch his every move- 
ment, tortured at seeing him enjoy at his ease the Paradise 
which they were forbidden to enter. 

“It is too much,” said Olympe one day to her husband. 
“He would like to put us in a closet and turn the key, 
I suppose, and keep everything pleasant for himself. Let 
us go down. We will see what he will say l” 

Frouche had just come from his office. He put 
on a clean collar, brushed the dust from his shoes, while 
Olympe put on a light dress. Then they walked boldly 
down and through the high box-hedge, stopping on their 
way to look at the flowers. The Abbe was at that mo- 
ment talking to Monsieur Maffre, with his back toward 
them. 

He turned at the sound of the crunching of the gravel 
and stopped short in the middle of a sentence. Maffre, 
who did not know these people, eyed them with much 
curiosity. 

“A lovely evening, is it not, gentlemen ? ” said Olympe, 
jauntily, although she turned pale as she met her brother’s 
eyes. 


199 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 

He drew the Judge hastily outside into the lane and 
quickly got rid of him. 

“He is furious,” murmured Olympe, “'but we must re- 
main all the same; if we go in, he will think we went out 
of fear. I intend now to give him a piece of my mind ! ” 

And she bade Frouche sit down in one of the chairs 
which Rose had brought out a few minutes before. When 
the Abb6 came back he saw them tranquilly installed. 
He pushed the bolts and looked around to see that they 
were fully concealed by the branches and foliage. Then, 
going close to them, he said in a low, hoarse voice : 

“Have you forgotten our agreement? Did you not 
promise to remain in your own quarters?” 

“It is too warm up there !” answered Olympe. “We 
are committing no crime in coming here to get a breath of 
fresh air.” 

The Priest was about to burst forth into a violent rage, 
but his sister, white with the resistance she was making, 
added in a strange tone : 

“You had best not make a commotion here. There 
are people on both sides of you, and you will do yourself 
an injury!” 

Both husband and wife here laughed, faintly. He 
looked at them in a silence that was absolutely formidable. 

“Sit down,” said Olympe. “You wish to quarrel? So 
be it ! We are tired of living in a prison, and we will do 
so no longer. You are cock of the w T alk here, the house 
is yours, the garden is yours ! We are glad of it, for we 
like to see you prosper ; but we do not like to be treated 


200 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


as if we were the boards under your feet. Never once 
have you brought me up a plum or a pear. You give us 
the worst rooms in the house — you hide us as if you were 
ashamed of us — you shut us up as if we had the plague ! 
Do you understand that this can’t last?” 

“ I am not the master of this mansion/’ said the Abbe, 
coldly. “Address yourself to Monsieur Mouret, if you 
wish to strip his trees and vines ! ” 

Again did the husband and wife exchange a smile. 

“We ask no questions about your affairs/’ continued 
Olympe. “We know what we know— and that is suffi- 
cient. All this proves that you have a bad heart. Do 
you think, if we were in your place, that we should not 
tell you to come in and take your share ? ” 

“But what do you want of me?” asked the Abbe. 
“You seem to think I am knee-deep in gold. You know 
my room is worse furnished than yours. I cannot give 
you this house, as it does not happen to belong to me.” 
Olympe prevented her husband from speaking, and 
continued : 

“Each of us understands life in his own way. You 
might have millions and you would not buy a chair for 
your bedroom. You would spend your money in some 
great silly enterprise. Now we two like to be comfortable. 
Do you mean to say that if you chose, you could not have 
this very night, all the fine furniture, linen, and provisions 
that any one could ask for? A good man would think of 
his family sometimes — he would not leave them to struggle 
with poverty as you have us ! ” 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 201 

The Abbe looked first at the husband and then at the 
wife, as they sat impudently at ease. 

“You are ungrateful!” he answered, “ basely ungrate- 
ful. I have done much for you. If you have bread to 
eat to-day, you owe it to me : for I have your letters, 
Olympe — letters in which you tell me you are starving, 
and entreat me to allow you to come to Plassans ! Now 
you are here, you are comfortable, and you ask more.” 

“ Pshaw!” interrupted Frouche, brutally. “If you 
allowed us to come here, it was because you needed us for 
something. I don’t believe in fine sentiments myself, and 
I only wish to tell you, that you make a mistake in keep- 
ing us chained up like dogs, and only let us out when you 
suspect danger. We are tired. If the house is not 
yours, what do you care what we do in it? We can’t eat 
it, you know.” 

“Any one would be angry,” resumed Olympe, “ to be 
kept a prisoner. You know that my husband will do 
as you say. Go your way and rely on us when you 
need us — 

The Abbe turned away, saying as he did so: 

“ Listen to me. If you ever become a hindrance in my 
path, I will send you off, and let you starve on the straw 
in a corner !” 

And off he walked. From that time the Frouche pair 
came every day into the garden, but not being absolute 
fools, they took care not to go at hours when the Priest 
was occupied with his acquaintances in the neighboring 
gardens. 


202 


THE CONQUEST OP PLASSANS. 


The following week Olympe made sueh bitter com- 
plaints of the room she occupied, that Marthe kindly 
offered her the one which had belonged to Serge. The 
Frouche pair slept in their new quarters, and made of their 
old a salon, for which Rose unearthed some furniture 
from the attic. Olympe was delighted, and at once 
ordered a rose-colored peignoir from the best dressmaker in 
Plassans. 

Mouret, forgetting that his wife had asked permission to 
lend these people his son’s room, walked in there one night 
and found them there. He went for a knife which the 
lad had left in the bottom of some drawer, which Frouche 
was that very moment using to bring a cane into shape 
which he had cut from a pear tree in the garden. Mouret 
apologized, and went down-stairs again® 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


203 


CHAPTER XIV. 

BATTLEDOOR AND SHUTTLECOCK. 

O X the day of the Fete Dieu, it was noticed that the 
Bishop turned his back on the Abbe Faujas. 

“ What does that mean?” asked Madame Rougon, who 
was looking on from her window. “Is there any trouble 
there?” 

“Did you not know that?” answered Madame Paloque; 
“it was talked of yesterday. The Abbe Fenil is again in 
favor.” 

Monsieur de Condamin began to laugh. 

“You will find it difficult, dear ladies, to keep the run 
of all these changes. The dear Bishop is a weather- 
cock, which turns either way, just as Faujas or Fenil blow 
upon him. In three days more Faujas will be in high 
favor again.” 

“ Xo ! this time,” answered Madame Paloque, “ the 
difficulty is serious. It seems that the Abbe Faujas, some 
time ago, wrote some sermons which gave displeasure at 
Rome. I cannot explain the matter; I only know that 
Monseigneur has received a letter full of reproaches from 
Rome, and that he is told to be on his guard. It is hinted 
that the Abbe Faujas is a political agent.” 

“ Who says that? ” asked Madame Rougon, half closing 
her eyes to watch the procession. 

13 


204 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


“I heard it said, but I have forgotten by whom,” 
answered her companion, indifferently. 

And she departed to another window, while Monsieur 
de Condamin took her place by Madame Rougon’s side, 
and whispered in her ear: 

“I have seen her twice going into the Abb6 Fdnil’s. 
She and he are certainly devising some plot. Faujas had 
best crush the head of this viper. If she were not so 
hideously ugly, I should be kindly enough disposed 
toward her to tell her that her husband will never get the 
position they are struggling for.” 

“ Why not? I really do not understand,” murmured 
the old lady, with the most artless air. 

De Condamin looked at her curiously, and then burst 
into a hearty laugh. 

The procession had disappeared, and the few persons 
whom Madame Rougon had invited to see it from her 
windows, assembled in the salon and talked a little of 
Monseigneur, of the new banners, and particularly of the 
young girls belonging to the Society of the Virgin, who 
were so well dressed and graceful in appearance. Presently 
the name of the Abbe Faujas was buzzed about the room. 

“ He is a Saint, to be sure ! ” sneered Madame Paloque 
in the ear of de Condamin, who found himself again at 
her side. 

She continued : 

“ I could not speak more openly before the mother. 
But there is a vast deal said of the Abbe Faujas and 
Madame Mouret, and these reports must have reached the 
Bishop’s ears.” 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


205 


De Condamin answered, quietly: 

“ Madame Mouret is a very charming woman, notwith- 
standing her forty years.” 

“Oh ! charming — most charming!” murmured his com- 
panion, green with jealous rage. 

“She is, indeed, and just at the age of great passions 
and great happiness. You women do not know much about 
each other!” 

And he left the room, chuckling over Madame Paloque’s 
wrath. 

The whole town was deeply interested in the contest 
between the two Abbes — each eager to maintain his 
supremacy over the Prelate. It was an undying con- 
test at which the Bishop smiled covertly, and wherein 
he found infinite amusement. He also enjoyed the gos- 
siping reports which were brought to him in regard to his 
favorites, both of whom he believed quite capable of 
assassinating each other. 

“ You see, my child,” he said to the Abbe Surin, in an 
hour of confidence, “one is as bad as the other, though in 
my heart I believe that Paris will win the day, and Rome 
go to the wall. Perhaps, however, one will murder the 
other in the meantime. We can’t tell. We must wait 
and see. By the way, read me that third ode in Horace. 
There is one verse I think I have badly rendered in my 
translation.” 

The weather on the Tuesday following the procession, 
was simply superb. Gay laughter rang through the 
gardens on either side of the Mourets’, where the Abb6 


206 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


Faujas, as usual, was reading his breviary, slowly pacing 
the shady walk between the tall box-hedges. He had not 
unlocked the little gate for some days — coquetting, so to 
speak, with his neighbors, hiding himself when he knew 
himself to be most wanted. Perhaps, too, he had noticed 
a little coldness arising from his small difficulty with the- 
Bishop, or did he know of the last tales his enemies had 
set afloat? 

About five o’clock the Abbe Surin proposed a game of 
battled oor and shuttlecock to the Rastoil young ladies, 
who, though nearly thirty, adored games, to which their 
mother made no objection, as if she had had her way they 
would still have worn short dresses. 

As they were deciding where they should stand that they 
might not have the sun in their eyes, the young Priest had 
a happy thought. 

“ Suppose we go into the lane,” he said; “we shall be 
shaded by the chestnuts, and have a great deal more space, 
too.” 

They at once obeyed this suggestion. The two young 
ladies began, but the Abbe was extremely skilful. He 
tucked his soutane between his legs, and bounded to and 
fro like a rubber ball, while Mademoiselle Aurelie 
shrieked with delight each time the shuttlecock hit the 
handsome nose of the young Priest. 

Whenever Faujas, in the Mouret garden, lifted his 
eyes from his breviary, he saw the shuttlecock flying to 
and fro, like an enormous butterfly above the wall. 

“Are you there, Monsieur le Cure?” cried Angeline, 
suddenly. “Our shuttlecock has flown over the wall I” 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


207 


The Abbe picked up the shuttlecock at his feet and 
opened the door. 

“Ah ! thanks,” said Aurelie ; “ we always get into 
trouble when Angeline plays. The other day she hit poor 
papa over the ear with such force that he was deaf half 
the day.” 

The young people all laughed. The Abbe Surin, as 
pink as a young girl, wiped his brow delicately with a fine 
handkerchief. He threw back his blond hair gayly ; his 
eyes were sparkling, and he used his battledoor as if it 
were a fan ; his rabat was slightly awry. 

“Monsieur le Cure,” he said, “you shall be umpire.” 

The Abbe Faujas, standing in the small doorway, smiled 
benignantly. He knew that the Prefect could see him 
from where he sat among his familiars, for his garden door 
into the lane was also open. 

But Faujas did not look in that direction. 

“ Look at them, Pequeur,” said de Condamin in the 
Prefect’s ear. “ You make a mistake in not asking that 
little Abb6 to your soirees. I am inclined to think he 
waltzes divinely, and at all events he knows how to make 
himself agreeable to the ladies.” 

But the Prefect did not choose to hear ; he went on 
talking to the Mayor. 

“I cannot understand,” he said, “what you see in him. 
In my opinion the Abbe Faujas is a very doubtful person. 
His past is very compromising, and I object to placing my- 
self at his feet, all the more that the clergy in Plassans are 
openly hostile to us.” 


208 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


Delangre and de Condamin exchanged a look and 
nodded an assent. 

“ You need not be so mysterious/’ continued the Prefect. 
“ I have written to Paris. I was determined to know all 
I could about this Faujas, whom you all treat as if he were 
a Prince in disguise. And do you know what answer I 
got? simply that he was not known, that they had noth- 
ing to tell me, and that in future I had best carefully 
avoid having anything to do with the affairs of the clergy. 
They are not pleased in Paris ever since that fool of a 
Langrifort was elected.” 

The Mayor said in a low voice : 

“ You wish to be Prefect, naturally?” 

The sub-Prefect smiled. 

“ Then let me tell you, you had best go as quickly as 
possible and shake hands with the Abbe Faujas.” 

Monsieur Pequeur des Saulaies, Prefect by courtesy, but 
sub-Prefect in reality, was dumb with amazement. He 
turned to Monsieur de Condamin : 

“Is this also your advice?” he said, anxiously. 

“ Unquestionably,” answered that gentleman. Then he 
added in a mocking tone, “ You have a good deal of con- 
fidence in my wife : go and ask her ! ” 

Madame de Condamin at that moment arrived, in an 
exquisite toilette of pink and gray. When she heard 
them talking of the Abbe, she said graciously to the 
Prefect : 

“Ah ! my dear sir, I must convert you. Gentlemen, leave 
us, if you please. I wish to hear Monsieur P6queur’s 
confession.” 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


209 


And she seated herself with smiling grace. 

“Octavie , 77 murmured the Prefect, when they were 
alone, “ why are you such a hypocrite? You made no 
pretence to religion when I knew you in Paris, Rue du 
Helder. It was with difficulty that I refrained from laugh- 
ing aloud when I saw you at Saint-Saturnin . 77 

“I thought you in those days far cleverer than I find 
you now / 7 she answered. “Are you so blind that you can 7 t 
see that your sleeve is on fire ? Do you not see that if 
you are not turned out, that it is because they do not wish 
to startle the Legitimists of Plassans just yet? They, as 
well as yourself are sleeping now, and believe themselves 
absolutely certain of victory in the next elections. Do you 
understand, my dear, that you are lost if you do not open 
your eyes and see certain things as they are ? 77 

He looked at her in absolute terror. 

“ Is this what The great man 7 has written to you ? 77 he 
asked, thus designating a person by a title agreed on between 
themselves. 

“ No, he has broken with me entirely. I am not a fool, 
and I was the first to recognize the necessity of this sepa- 
ration. Besides, I really have nothing to complain of ; he 
has been very generous and married me well, besides giv- 
ing me excellent advice. But I have other friends in 
Paris, and I assure you, that you have only time to catch 
on to the branches. Go at once and shake hands with 
Fauj as. You will understand why, at a future time, if 
you do not now ! 77 

Monsieur Pequeur sat a moment with bowed head, a 


210 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


little ashamed of the schooling he had received. He 
smiled and showed his white teeth, as he whispered 
tenderly : 

“ Had you chosen, Octavie, we two could have ruled 
Plassans. I told you — ” 

“ I tell you/’ she interrupted, angrily, “ that you are 
an utter simpleton ! You bore me to death with your 
‘ Octavie/ I am Madame de Condamin, and Octavie no 
longer to any one. Will you never understand ? I have 
thirty thousand francs income — I am respected and ad- 
mired. If people here suspect the past, they are all the 
more amiable. What do I want of you, my friend ? I am 
an honest woman now-a-days.” 

She rose and went to meet Dr. Porquier. 

“Ah ! Doctor/’ she said, “ I have such a hideous little 
pain in my left eyebrow.” 

“ It is connected with the heart,” answered the Doctor, 
gallantly. 

The lady smiled, but went into no further account of 
her ailments, while the Prefect carelessly approached the 
narrow door into the lane. When he was near it, he stood 
as if interested in the game he saw going on. 

“ Superb ! Superb ! ” he exclaimed. “Ah ! Monsieur 
Surin, I congratulate you — ” 

Then turning toward his little circle, the Prefect said : 

“Come here: I have never seen anything like this. 
You will allow us to look on, ladies, I trust?” 

All the little circle from the Prefect’s garden crowded 
into the lane. The Abbe Faujas had not moved; but he 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


211 


replied, with slight inclinations of the head, to the greetings 
he received, and went on counting. 

“That is three hundred and ten for you, Mademoiselle, 
and your sister has made only forty-seven / 7 he said, good- 
naturedly. 

As he watched the flight through the air, of the shuttle- 
cock with seeming eager interest, he glanced into the 
Rastoil garden, but could see only Monsieur Maffre. 

“ What are they laughing at ? 77 asked Monsieur Rastoil, 
who sat at the rustic table. 

“The Bishop 7 s Secretary is doing wonders with his 
battledoor. The Cure is looking on in astonishment . 77 

“ Ah ! 77 said Rastoil, as he took a pinch of snuff, “ is 
the Abbe Faujas there ? 77 

“ I am told , 77 said Monsieur de Bourden, “ that Faujas 
is again in favor with Monseigneur . 77 

“ Oh, yes, indeed , 77 answered Monsieur Maffre. “ There 
was a complete reconciliation this very morning. The 
Abbe Fenil was very much in the wrong . 77 

“I thought he was a friend of yours , 77 said Monsieur 
Rastoil, coldly. 

“ And so I am ; but I am also the friend of our Cure , 77 
answered the Judge. “But Heaven be praised, he can 
defy all scandal. They have even gone so far now as to 
attack his morality. It is absolutely a disgrace . 77 

His two hearers exchanged a singular look. 

“And they have even undertaken to involve him in 
political affairs , 77 continued Monsieur Maffre. “ It is said 
that he will soon be able to do as he pleases here — give 


212 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


places right and left — and let the Parisian clique triumph 
to their hearts’ content. People could not talk worse, were 
he the Chief of Brigands.” 

Monsieur de Bourden drew a profile on the gravel walk 
with his cane. 

“ Yes,” he said, carelessly, “I have heard some of this 
talk. It is, of course, incredible that a minister of religion 
should accept such a role. For the honor of Plassans, too, 
I should prefer to believe that such a course would be a 
complete failure, whomsoever adopted it. There is no one 
here who can be bought ! ” 

“It is all the merest gossip,” exclaimed Rastoil. “Can 
a town be turned like an old coat? Paris may send her 
spies, but Plassans will remain Legitimist. Who can be 
such idiots as to suppose that mysterious persons roam 
through the provinces, offering bribes and offices? I 
should really like to see one of these gentlemen.” 

He spoke angrily, and Monsieur Mafifre felt that he was 
personally attacked. 

“ Excuse me,” he interposed. “ I did not say that the 
Abbe Faujas was a Bonapartist. I said distinctly that I 
regarded the accusation as absurd.” 

“ I speak in general terms. The Abb6 Faujas is of 
course above all suspicion,” was the reply. 

There was a long silence. Monsieur de Bourden added 
to the profile he was drawing on the sand a long-pointed 
beard. 

“ The Abbe Faujas has no political opinions,” he said, 
dryly. 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


213 


“ Of course he has not/’ answered Rastoil; “ and at one 
time I reproached him for his indifference, but now I 
approve of it. You as well as I, know that his conduct 

in all respects has been above reproach. Pie has never 

/ 

been seen at the Prefect’s. If he were a Bonapartist, he 
need not conceal it, of course.” 

“Of course not!” 

At this moment a louder laugh was heard from the lane. 
Monsieur Rastoil said, with a sigh and a smile: 

“You hear? It is pleasant to be young!” 

After a moment’s silence, he continued : 

“My wife and my son have made me love the Abbe 
Faujas, and we regret sincerely that his discretion prevents 
us from seeing more of him.” 

More merry laughs and shouts from the lane. 

“We must really see what is going on,” said Monsieur 
Rastoil, rising from his rustic chair. 

Idle two others followed him, and all stood at the narrow 
door, and when they saw the number of persons gathered 
in the lane, they became quite solemn in demeanor. 

Pdie Prefect was there in a picturesque attitude, and 
Madame de Condamin’s rose-colored skirts seemed to fill 
up the entire lane. The two rival circles watched each 
other, neither willing to yield or advance, while in the 
centre, stood the Abbe Faujas on the threshold of the 
Mouret door, with his breviary under his arm. 

Meanwhile the Abbe Surin, seeing the number of his 
spectators so enlarged, increased his efforts, the ladies 
waved their handkerchiefs, and gentle bravos rent the 


214 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


air, as the young Abbe was pronounced victor. At that 
moment he slipped and fell, striking his knee against a 
stone. He recovered himself, but turned very pale. 

The Abbe Faujas caught him in his strong arms and 
carried him inside the garden, where he placed him on a 
chair, and there the young Abbe fainted completely away. 

“ Rose ! Bring some water — some vinegar!” cried 
Faujas, hurrying to the terrace. 

Mouret, who was in the dining-room, appeared at the 
window, but when he saw this crowd at the foot of the 
garden, he recoiled as if in fear, and was not again seen. 

Meanwhile, Rose arrived with any amount of restoratives. 
She was all out of breath. 

“ Madame is not at home,” she said; “and as for my 
master he is no good at all ! Any one might die, for all 
he would do!” 

When she saw the poor little Abbe, her motherly heart 
melted within her. He looked like one of those pictured 
Saints with his pale face and long light hair. One of the 
young ladies was supporting his head, and Madame de 
Condamin was bathing his temples. The two rival circles 
watched him anxiously. At last he opened his eyes, but 
he fainted twice again. 

At last he sat up and looked about confusedly, while 
Rastoil said to the Abbe Faujas: 

“This is a lovely garden!” and everybody examined the 
Mouret establishment with some curiosity. 

“ If these ladies and gentlemen will sit down,” said 
Rose, “ I will bring out some chairs.” 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


215 


And she made three journeys to the house, and the rival 
circles, after a glance at each other, seated themselves 
politely, and the conversation became general. 

“You are a very quiet neighbor, Monsieur le Cure,” 
said the Prefect. “It really rests me, to see you so calmly 
reading in this little Paradise every day at the same hour. 
It is quite like a cloister.” 

“ Good neighbors are rare ! ” remarked Monsieur 
Eastoil, sententiously. 

Madame de Condamin created a veritable sensation by 
the air of artless innocence with which she said : 

“ What I like in this garden is, that it seems to be a 
peaceful corner shut out from all the petty disputes of this 
world. Cain and Abel might be reconciled here ! ” 

And as these gentle words dropped from her lips, she 
glanced first to her right, then to her left, into the next 
gardens. 

Several of her hearers nodded approval, but neither 
spoke. 

At the end of some minutes Monsieur Eastoil rose. 

“ My wife will not know what has become of us,” he 
murmured. 

And everybody rose to depart, and everybody was a 
little embarrassed. But the Abbe Faujas said, pleasantly: 

“ My Paradise is always open ! ” 

And then the Prefect and Eastoil each promised to call 
on the Cure shortly, and the two circles stood exchanging 
compliments for another five minutes, while the shuttle- 
cock resumed its regular flight to and fro above the wall. 


216 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


CHAPTER XY. 

AN IRON HAND. 

O X Wednesday Madame Paloque going into the church, 
was much surprised to see Marthe kneeling before 
the Chapelle Saint-Michel. The Abbe Faujas confessed 
at that hour. 

“ I think I will stay a while/’ said Madame Paloque. 
“ If Madame de Condamin would come now, it would be 
delicious ! ” 

She took a chair a little in the rear, and half kneeling, 
with her face in her hands, as if absorbed in prayer, she 
looked through her fingers. Marthe, with her head bent 
over her prayer-book, was as motionless as if asleep. She 
was a mere black mass against a white pillar. Her shoul- 
ders only moved at times with a long, quivering sigh. She 
allowed penitent after penitent to go up, and she still held 
aloof. The Abbe became impatient at the delay, and 
rapped on the Confessional, but still Marthe held back and 
allowed another to take her place, but at each change there 
was a slight delay. 

“It is absolutely indecent,” said la Paloque to herself, 
“to show her passion in this way! Ah! here comes 
Madame de Condamin ! ” 

It was she, indeed. That lady stopped at the Beni tier, 
took off her glove, and crossed herself with charming 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


217 


grace. Her silk skirts swept against the chairs as she 
moved between them, and when she knelt, the crisp rustle 
of her skirts filled the church. She had her usual air of 
amiability, and smiled into the dark recesses of the church. 
Soon there was no one kneeling at the Confessional but 
herself and Marthe. Again did the Priest rap impatiently. 

“ Madame, it is your turn: I came last,” whispered 
Madame de Condamin, leaning toward Marthe, whom she 
had not recognized. 

Madame Mouret lifted her face, pale and pinched with 
excessive emotion. She did not seem to understand. She 
seemed to awaken from an ecstasy, and her eyelids 
quivered. 

"Well, ladies, well?” said the Abbe, opening the door 
of the Confessional. 

Madame de Condamin rose with a smile, obedient to the 
summons of the Priest. When Marthe saw her, she, too, 
rose, only to sink again on her knees three steps away. 

Madame Paloque was quite thrilled. She hoped that the 
two women would take each other by the hair. Marthe 
might easily hear all, for the voice of the other was clear 
and flute- like. She dwelt on her sins with much pleasure, 
and really enjoyed her visits to the Confessional. Once 
she even laughed a soft, stifled laugh, and Marthe lifted 
her agitated face. 

At last Madame de Condamin retired, and Marthe fol- 
lowed her with her eyes. Then she staggered to the Con- 
fessional and fell heavily on her knees. Madame Paloque 
crept nearer, but saw only the penitent’s dark robe, and for 


218 THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 

a half hour there was not a movement. She thought she 
heard a shuddering sob, but found little to amuse her in 
this espionage. She waited, however, to see Marthe come 
out. 

The Abbe was the first to leave the Confessional, shut- 
ting the door with an irritated hand. Madame Mouret 
remained a long time, motionless and crushed, as it were. 

When she came out, her veil was drawn close over her 
face and she walked with difficulty. She forgot to cross 
herself at the Benitier. 

“ There has been a quarrel, I am sure,” muttered Pa- 
loque, gliding after her until they reached the Square. 
Here she hesitated, looked about her to see that no one was 
watching her, and then slipped into the house of the Abb6 
Fenil. 

Marthe in these days fairly lived at Saint-Saturnin. 
She fulfilled all her religious duties with the greatest pos- 
sible fervor. Even the Abbe Faujas reproved her at 
times for the passion she showed. He did not allow her 
to go to Communion but once each month, and laid down 
certain rules for her hours of prayer and meditation. She 
was compelled to entreat him, long before he would con- 
sent that she should assist at low mass each morning. 

One day when she told him that she had knelt for hours 
on the cold stones, he became very angry, and said that 
only her confessor had the right to impose such penances, 
and threatened to send her back to the Abbe Bourette, if 
she was not more submissive. 

She was happy under this discipline. The iron hand 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


219 


which held back her eager steps charmed the neophyte, 
who divined rather than saw, the promised land. The 
great rest she had at first felt in the church, the utter for^ 
getfulness of herself and the outer world, was now trans- 
formed into an active joy. The happiness for which she, 
since her childhood, had vaguely longed, she found at last 
after a search of forty years — a happiness which was 
ample, and filled her with new sensations. 

“ Be kind to me,” she murmured to the Abbe. u Be 
kind to me, for I am in great need of kindness.” 

And when he was kind, she thanked him on bended 
knees. He told her in a paternal fashion that she allowed 
her imagination to carry her away. God, he said, did not 
covet such adoration. 

She smiled, and a soft color flushed her cheek. She was 
young again, and very lovely. She promised to be more 
sensible. Then in some dark corner she sank' prostrate, 
breathing ardent prayers, and when words failed her, she 
still continued to pray in silent ecstasy. 

But Marthe at home was a changed being. Up to this 
time she had been indifferent and happy, so long as her 
husband did not interfere with her ; but now that he spent 
his whole time within-doors, wandering about spiritless and 
silent, he irritated her beyond measure. 

“ He is always under our feet,” she said impatiently, to 
Rose. 

“ He means no harm, Madame,” the cook replied. 
“ He is a good man after all ! ” 

Mouret ruled the two women through money. He no 
14 


220 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


longer scolded, but he was none the less determined to 
draw the purse-strings tightly. He allowed Rose one 
hundred francs per month for household expenses — wine, 
oil and sweetmeats were in the pantry. But it often 
happened that the cook, toward the end of the month, had 
not a sou. As to Marthe, she was absolutely without 
money. She was compelled to combine with Rose, and 
try and save ten francs out of the one hundred. She was 
often without a pair of boots to put on her feet, and was at 
last compelled to go to her mother to beg money, with 
which to buy a robe and a hat. 

“ But Mouret must be mad ! ” cried Felicite; “you can't 
go naked. I shall speak to him.” 

“ I implore you, mother, to say nothing,” Marthe 
answered. “ He detests you, and would treat me worse 
still, did he know that I had complained to you.” 

And she added, with tears : 

u I determined not to open my lips, but to-day I felt that 
I could keep silence no longer. Do you remember that, 
at one time, he shut me up in the house, and would not 
allow me to set my foot in the street ? Now, if he is not 
so severe, it is because he sees that I have escaped from 
his clutches, and that I will not consent to be simply his 
housekeeper. He is a man without religion, and without 
a heart, utterly selfish and avaricious.” 

“ He does not beat you ?” 

“ No ; but that will come in due season. For five years 
1 have bought no underclothing, and mine are so patched 
and darned that I am ashamed to wear them. I showed 


221 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 

them to him ; he examined them, and said they would 
last another year with care. I have not a centime. The 
other day I was obliged to borrow two sous from Rose 
with which to buy a spool of cotton to sew over my 
gloves/’ 

And she told twenty more similar things : how she had 
mended her own boots with waxed thread, and washed 
her ribbons in tea, and inked the seams in her only silk 
skirt. 

Her mother sympathized with her heartily, and encour- 
aged her to rebellion. Mouret was a monster; and Rose 
said he counted the pears on the tree and the sweetmeat 
jars in the pantry, and eat the crusts left from the table 
for his own breakfast. 

Marthe’s keenest suffering arose from not being able to 
give alms at the church. She saved every sou she could 
get hold of, but to little avail. And when the ladies of 
the Committee offered some gift to the Cathedral — a ban- 
ner or a silver chalice — she was filled with shame, and 
avoided them, feigning to know nothing of their project. 
These ladies pitied her greatly. She would have robbed 
her husband if she had found the key to his secretary, 
so eager was she to ornament the church she so loved. 
She was madly jealous when the Abbe Faujas used a chal- 
ice presented by Madame de Condamin ; while on those 
days that the cloth she had embroidered lay on the altar, 
she felt a profound joy, and prayed with a shivering 
delight, as if part of herself lay under the outspread hands 
of the Priest. 


222 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


Rose, who was in her confidence, was extremely inge- 
nious in procuring money. She took fruit from the garden 
that year, and sold it, and relieved the old garret from an 
accumulation of furniture. Finally she was able to hand 
her mistress three hundred francs. Marthe could have 
embraced her old cook. 

“You are sure he does not suspect anything?” she 
asked, feverishly. “ The other day I saw some small sil- 
ver vases, beautifully ornamented, in the Rue des Orfe- 
vres — they asked two hundred francs for them. I dare 
not buy them myself, because I might be seen. Tell 
your sister to go and get them and bring them to you at 
night.” 

This purchase gave her the most intense joy. She kept 
the vases in her wardrobe for three days behind a pile of 
old linen, and when she gave them to the Abbe in the 
vestry of Saint-Saturnin, she could hardly speak. He 
scolded her kindly. He did not like presents, he said; 
and he spoke of silver with the disdain of a man who cares 
only for power and dominion. During the first two years 
of poverty, when he and his mother lived on bread and 
water, he had never once thought of borrowing ten francs 
from the Mourets. 

Marthe grew very avaricious also, and carefully hoarded 
her one hundred francs. Each day, she in her mind 
appropriated it for some new purchase for the church. 
And one morning when deep in thought, Rose came 
and said that Madame Frouche wished to speak to 
her. 


i 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


223 


Olympe had recently become extremely intimate with 
the cook, spending hours at a time in the kitchen with 
her. 

“ Go up and see her,” added Rose. “ They are good 
people, and they have their troubles like the rest of us, 
but they worship the Cure. 77 

Marthe found Olympe in tears, and she at once began 
an explanation of their affairs at Besangon, where the 
rascality of a partner had left them with heavy debts to 
shoulder. The creditors worried her with letters, and 
threatened to write to the Mayor and the Bishop. 

“ I am ready to endure everything myself, 77 she said, 
sobbing ; “ but my brother must not be compromised. 
He has done so much for us that I cannot ask him for 
more, for he is not rich, and he can really do nothing. 
Where can I turn for help ! How can I prevent these 
people from writing to the Bishop ! My poor brother 
would die of shame — 77 

Tears came to Madame Mouret’s eyes. She pressed 
01ympe 7 s hand, and without being asked offered her 
her hundred francs. 

“It is very little, 77 she said, “but it may avert the 
peril. 77 

“No, 77 answered Olympe, despondently; “he would 
never accept a hundred francs : that sum would be 
useless ! ,7 

Marthe was in despair, for she had not another sou. 
She thought with regret of the silver vases ; if she had 
not bought them, she could have given the Abbe 7 s sister 


224 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


two hundred francs more. She said this to Madame 
Frouche, whose eyes flamed. 

“ It is a pity/’ she said, “ for the vases will always 
remain in the church, while you might have done my 
brother a personal service. Do not do this again, for it is 
in reality robbing him. Ask my advice in future. No, 
a hundred francs will do no good!” 

But after another hour of lamentation, finding that 
Marthe had absolutely no more, she condescended to 
accept the hundred francs. 

“ Perhaps he will be willing to wait a little when he 
receives this sum,” she murmured, “ but he will not leave 
us in peace long ; but do not say a word of this to my 
brother ; you will kill him. My husband too must not 
know that I have spoken to you — he is so proud that it 
would mortify him inexpressibly ; but women, you know, 
understand each other — ” 

Marthe was happy in this loan ; from this time she had 
another care : to avert from the Abb6 without his knowl- 
edge, the danger that threatened him. Olympe had told 
her that the Priest had indorsed certain notes, and that the 
scandal would be frightful, should they be sent to Plassans 
for collection. The total amount was so enormous that 
she refused to name it, but one day, urged by Marthe, she 
spoke of twenty thousand francs. 

Marthe was chilled with horror at the words. With 
fixed eyes she thought that only Mouret’s death would 
enable her to pay such an amount as that. 

“I speak of the sum total,” added Olympe, hastily; 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


225 


“ but if we can pay it off in ten years I shall be content. 
The creditors will wait if they know what they may 
expect regularly. It is a great pity that we can find no 
one who would have sufficient confidence in us to make 
the necessary advances.” 

This was the constant subject of their conversation. 
Olympe often spoke of her brother, whom she seemed to 
adore. She told Marthe certain peculiarities of the 
Priest’s. He could not sleep on the left side ; he had a 
strawberry on the right shoulder which reddened in May 
like the natural fruit. Marthe never wearied of these 
details. She questioned Madame Frouche as to her bro- 
ther’s childhood. Then when the question of money came 
up again, she fretted at her own powerlessness. She even 
complained of Mouret, whom Olympe boldly called “that 
old miser.” Often, when Frouche came in, he found the 
two ladies talking earnestly, but they instantly changed 
the conversation. Frouche was much liked by the Lady 
Patronesses of the Society of the Virgin. 

Finally Marthe, aided by Olympe — who sometimes 
spoke of committing suicide — induced Rose to dispose of 
everything in the house that was not in constant use. At 
first the women were somewhat timid- and cautious, and 
only carried off the disabled chairs and tables, but they 
grew bolder, and soon attacked more important things — 
glass, china and ornaments. They were on a fatal path; 
they would have left nothing but the four walls, if one 
morning Mouret had not rushed in, and accusing Rose of 
theft, swore he would have her arrested. 


226 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


“ Take care what you say, sir!” the woman answered. 
“ You saw me sell a ring, did you? Very well, who has 
a better right? The ring was mine. Madame gave it to 
me. Are you not ashamed to leave your poor wife with- 
out a sou ? She actually has no shoes to her feet ! I paid 
the milk-woman out of my own pocket the other day. 
Certainly I sold her ring. Why shouldn’t I? The ring 
was hers, but if I were in her place I would sell the house 
to get the money you ought to give her. I declare it is a 
sin and a shame to see such performances ! ” 

Mouret from that time was vigilance itself. He carried 
the keys, and never let them out of his hands. When 
Rose went out he looked at her hands and felt of her 
pockets. 

He bought back certain things from the second-hand 
dealer, which he put in their places, dusting them care- 
fully in Marthe’s presence, with allusions to what he called 
“the thefts of that woman,” for he never directly accused 
his wife of anything. He tortured her especially, about a 
decanter of cut glass, which the cook had sold for twenty 
sous, pretending to him that it was broken. He compelled 
the cook to place it on the table at each meal. One 
morning she deliberately dropped it in his presence. 

“Now, sir,” she said, with an impudent laugh, “will you 
admit that it is broken ! ” 

And when he bade her leave the house, she replied : 
“That if she went, Madame would go to!” 

Marthe, pushed to extremity, and encouraged by Rose 
and Olympe, rebelled openly. Olympe had tortured her 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 227 

for days by saying that if at the end of the month she had 
not five hundred francs, one of the notes indorsed by the 
Abbe Faujas would be “ published in the daily paper.” 
Tli is frightful threat, which she did not fully explain, 
terrified Marthe out of her senses, and determined her to 
dare all. That night she asked him for five hundred 
francs, and when he looked at her aghast, she spoke of her 
fifteen years passed at Marseilles behind a counter, with a 
pen behind her ears, like any clerk. 

“We made the money together,” she said; “it belongs 
to me as much as to you. I want five hundred francs.” 
Then Mouret blazed out: 

‘Five hundred francs!” he cried. “Is it for your 
Cure? I say little nowadays, but there are limits to 
human endurance. Five hundred francs, indeed ! Why 
do you not take the house? He seems to think it is his 
already. Soon my handkerchief will be stolen from my 
pocket. I don’t doubt if I were to go up to his room, I 
should find my clothing in his bureau ! No, not one sou 
will you have! ” 

“I want five hundred francs,” she answered, calmly, 
“and half the money belongs to me.” 

Mouret stormed for an hour. He no longer understood 
his wife. She had loved him before the arrival of that 
Cure in their house. She had taken an interest in their 
home, and the people who had worked such a change in 
her must be thoroughly bad. His voice here failed him, 
and he dropped into his chair as weak as a child. 

“Give me the key of the secretary,” said Marthe. 


228 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


He tried to stand on his feet. 

“You want all, do you? You would like to beggar 
your children, and leave us without a crust of bread! 
W ell ! take all. Call Rose, that she, too, may fill her 
apron ! 

And he threw her the key. Marthe hid it under her 
pillow, and went to bed, pale and shaken by this first 
violent quarrel she had ever had with her husband. 

He spent the night in his arm-chair. Toward morning 
she heard him sobbing. She would have given him back 
his key, had he not rushed out of the room like a madman, 
and down into the garden, though it was raining hard. 

Peace seemed to be once more established. The key 
of the secretary hung on the nail by the mirror. Marthe, 
who was unused to handling large sums of money, was a 
little afraid of it, and at first was very discreet, even a 
little ashamed, each time she opened the drawer, where 
Mouret always kept several thousand francs. She took 
only precisely what she needed. Olympe, too, advised 
economy now that she had the key, and seeing her so 
timid, refrained for a time from any further allusions to 
BesanQon. 

Mouret relapsed into his mournful silence. He had 
received a new blow, more violent even than the departure 
of his son to the Seminary. His friends — those who were 
in the habit of meeting him regularly — were quite moved 
by the change in him. 

“And only forty-four ! ” they said ; “ it is most incon- 
ceivable ! ” 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 229 

“He has just what he deserves,” said one. “You re- 
member what a fuss he made about the Cur6, and how 
warm he was in his praise. He has a very different 
notion now, I fancy ! ” And these gentlemen repeated 
certain scandalous stories to each other. 

“ Mouret is entirely to blame,” said a rich tanner. 
“ Were I he, I should have put the Cure out long ago. 
I really think he is a little cracked.” 

These calumnies, notwithstanding the trouble certain 
people took to circulate them, occupied the attention and 
interest of a very narrow circle. If the Abbe refused to 
remove from the Mouret mansion, it was because, as he 
said himself, of his fondness for the beautiful garden, 
where he could read his Breviary in such quiet peace. 

His piety and his rigid life placed him above all sus- 
picions. The members of the young men’s club accused 
the Abbe Fenil of active malevolence. The Ville Neuve 
belonged to him, but the Quartier Saint-Marc still held 
themselves aloof, when they met him in the salon of the 
Prelate. 

He shook his head, therefore, when old Madame 
Rougon bade him dare all. 

“ Nothing is yet firm,” he murmured. “A straw could 
tli row over the edifice ! ” 

Marthe had made him very anxious for some time. He 
felt that he was powerless to calm the devotion which 
burned within her, and he felt that this woman, who had 
been of such infinite use to him, might yet become his 
destruction. He realized that she was devoured with 


230 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


secret flame which glittered through her eyes. It was a 
growing evil, devouring brain and heart. Her face 
glowed with ecstasy — her eyes swam in tears, and her 
hands quivered with nervous excitement. A violent 
cough shook her at times from head to foot, but she never 
seemed to notice it. At last he told her with severity 
that she should not come to Saint-Saturnin. 

“The church is cold,” he said, “your cough is severe, 
and you must not increase your illness.” 

She assured him it was nothing — a mere irritation of 
the throat. But she was submissive, and accepted his 
mandate as a chastisement. She sobbed, as she meekly 
turned away; but on the very next Friday, she slipped 
quietly into the Chapelle Saint-Miehel as usual, and 
pressed her burning brow against the Confessional. She 
did not speak, but remained there as if stunned, while the 
Abbe administered a few words of indignant reproof, and 
sent her off, relieved and almost happy. 

The Priest told Dr. Porquier that the chapel was too 
damp for her, and the Doctor sent her to the little chapel 
in the Faubourg, connected with “The Society of the 
Virgin,” where the Abbe Faujas agreed to receive her 
every other Saturday. 

The Priest, who had distrusted the darkness of the 
church, rejoiced in this large, bright oratory, with its four 
large windows. There he hoped to bring this persistent 
woman to her senses, and avoid all possible scandal. In 
addition, he insisted that his mother should always ac- 
company Marthe. The old lady, unwilling to lose her 
time, brought her knitting. 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


231 


“My dear child,” she often said, on their way home, “I 
heard Ovide talking very loud to you, to-day. How is it 
that you displease him so often?” 

Marthe turned her head away. She was filled with 
shame before Madame Faujas. She did not like her, was 
jealous of her, and fancied that she stood between herself 
and the Priest. She shivered under the keen eyes of the 
old lady, so full of strange counsel and suggestions. 

The bad state of Marthe’s health was sufficient explana- 
tion of this new move, which Dr. Porquier also took care 
to say, was at his suggestion. 

“ It is all stuff,” said Madame Paloque to her husband 
one day, when she had just seen Marthe with Madame 
Faujas, go down the street. “ I have had colds and 
coughs, too, in my time, but I could go to church for 
Confession all the same ! ” 

“You make a mistake in troubling yourself so much 
about the Abbe’s affairs,” said her husband. “You are 
too bitter, and will get us into trouble, my dear.” 

“Your Abb6 Faujas is a great fool!” she answered, 
sharply. “Don’t you think that Fenil would show his 
gratitude to me if I should surprise the Cure and his fair 
penitent saying sweet things to each other? He would pay 
me well, that I know. Let me manage matters. You 
understand nothing of such things ! ” 

A fortnight later, again on a Saturday, did Madame 
Paloque watch Marthe come out and turn the corner; then 
did the spy slowly draw on her gloves and go out, crossing 
the Square with a leisurely step. 


232 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


“ They have had some time now/’ she said at last, 
glancing up at the clock, and she walked on to the 
Institution, where she was, of course, in the habit of going 
to confer with Frouche. 

On the day of which we write, instead of going to his 
room, she crossed the corridor, and went directly to the 
oratory, before the door of which sat Madame Faujas, 
calmly knitting. 

The spy had foreseen this obstacle; but she went to the 
door with the air of being in great haste. But, before she 
could turn the handle, the old lady darted forward with 
singular agility. 

“What do you want? Where are you going?” she 
asked, in her rough peasant voice. 

“ I am going where I have need to go ! ” answered 
Madame Paloque, with a face livid with anger. “You 
are extremely insolent. Allow me to pass. I am Treas- 
urer of the Society of the Virgin, and have a right to go 
wherever I please in this building.” 

But Madame Faujas stood against the door, and began 
to knit with the greatest calmness in the world. 

“No,” she said, quietly; “you will not go in here! ” 

“Ah! indeed. And why not, pray ? ” 

“ Because I do not choose you to do so.” 

The spy felt that she was outgeneralled. She exclaimed, 
angrily: 

“I do not know who you are, but I do know this, that 
outrageous things are going on behind that door, if you are 
stationed here as guard. If you do not let me pass, I shall 
summon the household.” 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


233 


“ Do so, if you choose,” answered the old lady, shrugging 
her shoulders. “ I have told you that you should not go 
in, and you shall not. Do I not know that you are 
Treasurer ?. And what of that ? ” 

Then Madame Paloque lost all control of herself, and 
she answered, in a loud, shrill voice : 

“ I have no need to go in. I have all the information 
I desire. You are the mother, I believe, of the Abbe 
Faujas. Allow me to congratulate you on the role you 
play. No; I do not wish to go in. I do not care to be 
mixed up with such vileness ! ” 

Madame Faujas laid her knitting on the chair, and 
stood with her eyes gleaming through her spectacles, with 
her hands a little raised, and her body bent forward, as if 
ready for a spring at the throat of her adversary. 

At this moment the door suddenly opened, and the 
Abbe appeared on the threshold. He wore his surplice, 
and looked gravely surprised, rather than angry. 

“ What is the matter ? ” he asked. 

The old lady dropped her head, and slunk away a 
little. 

“Ah ! it is you, dear Madame Paloque ? ” continued the 
Priest; “and you wish to see me?” 

The lady, with a marvellous effort, was quite smiling. 
She answered in a singularly amiable tone, which rang 
with latent satire : 

“ What ! Are you there ! Had I known that, I should 
not have insisted. I wanted to see our altar cloth, which 
needs some slight repairs. But if you are busy, I will not 


234 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


intrude. Had Madame warned me, I should have allowed 
her to keep guard quite undisturbed.” 

A slight growl from Madame Faujas caused her son to 
turn toward her. She was at once silenced. 

“Come in,” he answered; “you do not disturb me. I 
was confessing Madame Mouret, who is far from well. 
Come in, and look at the altar cloth.” 

“No,” she said; “I will come another time. I am 
overwhelmed with confusion at my intrusion.” 

She went in, however, as she spoke, and while she and 
Marthe looked at the altar cloth, the Priest said to his 
mother, in a low voice: 

“Why on earth did you stop her? I never told you to 
keep people out.” 

She looked beyond him a fixed, stolid gaze. 

“She should have gone in only over my dead body,” she 
said, slowly. 

“But why? ” 

“Why? Listen to me, Ovide, but do not be vexed with 
me, for you know that kills me. You told me to bring 
that woman here, and I thought you wanted me to keep 
away intruders. I took my seat here, determined that you 
could do what you pleased, but no one should go into that 
room.” 

He grasped her fiercely by the shoulder. 

“You cannot suppose — ?” he gasped. 

“I supposed nothing,” she replied, with sublime indif- 
ference. “You can do what you choose, and all you do is 
well done in my eyes. I am ready to do your bidding in 
all things — rob — murder, if you say so ! ” 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


235 


But he no longer heeded her. He said in a slow way, 
as if half to himself, his face graver and more austere than 
ever : 

“ No — never — never ! ” After a moment’s pause, he 
added, haughtily : 

“ You are mistaken, mother. The only strong men, are 
those who are chaste ! ” 

15 


236 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


I 


CHAPTER XVI. 

MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 

A T seventeen Desiree was as innocent as a baby. She 
had become a tall, beautiful girl, growing like a 
strong, healthy plant, and careless of the sadness which had 
invaded the house. 

“ You do not laugh, ” she said to her father ; u come 
and play with me.” 

And she coaxed him off to the garden, where she dug 
and planted with him. She wanted chickens, which 
pecked at and ruined the vegetables. What with the 
digging and the caring for her poultry, the child was often 
in a lamentable condition. 

“She shall not come into my kitchen, Madame! ” cried 
Rose. “ She brings in bushels of mud.” 

Marthe no longer troubled herself about Desiree. Her 
stockings were in holes, and her skirts hung in strips, like 
a beggar’s. Mouret himself one day sewed up a slit 
which showed her pretty white skin. The child seemed 
to enjoy being half naked. 

Marthe contemplated her at times with almost disgust. 
When she came in from church half dreaming, and with 
the odor of incense in her hair, she was shocked by the 
appearance of her daughter. She bade her go back to the 
garden until she had finished her breakfast. The girl’s 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


237 


robust health . fatigued her ; her laugh set her teeth on 
edge. 

“ How wearisome she is ! ” she sighed one day. 

Mouret, who heard her, said, angrily : 

“ If she troubles you, you can send her away like the 
other two — ” 

One afternoon at the end of the summer Mouret missed 
Desiree’s perpetual noise, and went out to see where she 
was. He found her on the ground at the foot of a ladder 
she had climbed to gather figs. Fortunately some bushes 
had broken her fall, and she was not seriously hurt. 
Marthe had come down the steps at Mouret’s quick sum- 
mons, but when she heard the child laugh she was 
angry. 

“ She will kill me!” she said. “ She gives me one 
shock after another ! ” 

u Certainly she does,” added Rose ; u and there is no 
chance of anything better, for she will never be married.” 

Mouret was cut to the heart, but said not one word. 
He and his daughter remained together at the foot of the 
garden until nightfall. The next day Marthe and Rose 
were absent all the morning ; they went a league out of 
Plassans to hear mass. When they came in, the cook 
hurriedly served a cold breakfast. Marthe began to eat, 
without noticing that her daughter was not at the table. 

“ Is not Desiree hungry? ” she asked. “ Why does she 
not breakfast with us ? ” 

“ Desiree is not here,” answered Mouret, listlessly. “ I 
took her to her nurse this morning at Saint-Eutrope.” 


238 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


Martlie dropped her fork — surprised and wounded. 

“Took her without consulting me?” she asked. 

Mouret continued, without replying to her directly: 

“She is well off. The good woman loves her, and will 
take good care of her. The child will give no further 
trouble to any one.” 

And, as she did not speak, he continued: 

“ If the house is not quiet enough now, you can tell me 
so, and I will go away, too.” 

She half rose from her chair ; her eyes flashed. "Within 
this long-repressed nature a rage hitherto unknown, sud- 
denly swelled into being; she hated this man, who haunted 
her like remorse itself. She began to eat again without 
saying another word about her daughter. Mouret had 
folded his napkin and sat before her, listening to the 
rattling of her knife and fork. He looked around this din- 
ing-room, once so joyous with the laughter of children and 
now so sad and dreary. The room was as if it were frozen. 
Tears came to his eyes, when Marthe called Hose to bring 
in the dessert. 

“You have a good appetite to-day, Madame,” said the 
cook, as she placed a basket of fruit on the table. “ We 
have had a long walk.” 

She changed the plates as she spoke. 

“Yes,” answered Marthe, “but a very pleasant morn- 
ing and a most excellent sermon from the Abbe Mousseau. 

When Rose heard of Desiree’s departure, she at once 
exclaimed : 

“It is a splendid idea! She took all my saucepans to 
water her salads. Now we can live in peace.” 


THE CONQUEST OF PL ASS A NS. 


239 


“Yes,” said Marthe, quietly, as she peeled a pear; 
“yes — things will be in order now! ” 

Mouret could bear no more. He left the dining-room 
without heeding Rose, who called out that coffee was 
ready. Marthe, alone in the dining-room, ate her pear 
quietly. Madame Faujas was coming down the stairs, as 
the cook brought in coffee. 

“Come in,” said Rose; “you will keep Madame com- 
pany, and can drink my master’s cup. He has rushed off 
as if he were crazy ! ” 

The old lady seated herself opposite Marthe, in Mouret’s 
chair. 

“I thought you did not take coffee after dinner,” she 
said, as she drew the sugar-bowl toward her. 

“We do now, though,” answered Rose. “Madame 
holds the keys, and there is no reason why she should not 
have anything she fancies.” 

They talked for an hour. Marthe told all her woes to 
Madame Faujas — how her husband had made a terrible 
scene and taken her child away. She declared that she 
would go and bring her back. 

“She was somewhat noisy,” insinuated Madame Faujas. 
“I have often pitied you. My son gave up reading his 
Breviary in your garden, for her noise disturbed him so 
much.” 

From this day the meals in this household were abso- 
lutely silent. The autumn was very damp and rainy, and 
the dining-room was very dismal, with its two isolated 
places laid at the two ends of the large table. 


240 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


“ Why do you make so much noise here?” Rose would 
say, satirically, as she changed the plates. “ Do cheer up, 
master. You look as if you were following a hearse. 
You will end by putting Madame in her bed. It is not 
good for the digestion never to talk at meals.” 

When the first cold weather came on, Rose, who was 
always ready to oblige the old lady, advised her to use 
the kitchen fire, which Madame Faujas began doing, by 
warming some water for the Abb6 to shave ; then she bor- 
rowed some hot smoothing-irons, and put a saucepan on 
to heat, and ended by accepting the cook’s offer altogether. 

“ What is the use,” said Rose, “of your trying to do 
anything up-stairs? No one but my master would ever 
think he could let an apartment that had no kitchen.” 

After a little Madame Faujas cooked both dinner and 
breakfast in the Mouret kitchen. At first she brought 
her own charcoal, her spices and oil ; if she forgot any- 
thing, the cook w’ould insist on her taking what she needed 
from her pantry. 

“ There is the butter,” she said ; “ and what you take 
on the end of your knife is not likely to hurt us. You 
know very well that Madame would scold me if I did not 
make you comfortable.” 

Thus a great intimacy grew up between Rose and 
Madame Faujas: the cook was delighted to have a person 
near her, to whom she could talk, while her sauces sim- 
mered. She was also very much at her ease with the 
Priest’s mother, whose plain face, calico dress and rough 
ways put them almost on terms of equality. 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


241 


Madame Faujas soon ruled the kitchen — ordered the 
dinners and tasted their dishes before they were sent in, 
and Rose often set aside a portion of the dainties for the 
Abbe. The provisions became so mixed, the casseroles so 
confounded, that the cook would sometimes say, with a 
laugh, just as she was serving dinner: 

“Do these eggs belong to you or to us? I am sure I 
can’t tell. How much better it would be if you all eat 
together !” 

It was on All Saints’ Day that the Abbe Faujas break- 
fasted for the first time in the Mouret dining-room, tie 
was in great haste to return to church, and Marthe in- 
sisted on his sitting down at once, as their table was 
ready. 

A week later, and it was a fixed habit; the Priest and 
his mother came down to each meal. At first the dishes 
were separate, but Rose said she would as soon cook for 
four persons as two, and she would arrange with Madame 
Faujas, who, she said, was only too good to come down 
and cheer up poor Madame. 

“ It was too dismal in that room! ” the cook added. “I 
could not bear to go in there.” 

The stove roared gently, the room was deliciously warm, 
and the winter passed charmingly. The linen was always 
immaculate and the table carefully laid, with the Abbe’s 
chair placed by Rose where his back would be to the fire. 
She took especial care that his knife should be bright and 
that his napkin should always be fresh. 

When she had a dish ready that the Abbe especially 


242 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


liked, she always told him of it, that he might reserve his 
appetite, and would then bring it in with a triumphant 
air. 

“ It is for the Cure/’ she would say. “ Madame, please 
help him first, while it is good and hot.” 

Marthe insisted with pleading eyes that he should ac- 
cept the choicest morsels, while Rose, standing by her side, 
would point out what she believed to be the best. And 
the two often quarrelled amiably over the chicken or the 
rabbit. Rose pushed a foot-stool under the Abba’s feet, 
and Marthe ordered an especial roll for him daily at the 
baker’s, and placed it herself at his side, with a bottle of 
Bordeaux. 

“ Nothing is too good for him,” said Rose. “ Who ought 
to live well, if a good man like the Abbe can’t?” 

Madame Faujas, at her son’s side, smiled benignantly 
upon all this petting. She really loved Marthe and Rose, 
and thought their adoration of her son perfectly natural. 
With her head held high, and plying her knife and fork 
steadily, she was the presiding genius of the repast, and 
watched them all. She spoke, only to say a word or two 
of her son’s tastes, or to cut short some polite refusal he 
uttered. Sometimes she shrugged her shoulders and 
touched his foot quietly. Was not the table really his? 
He could have eaten the entire dish if he had chosen: no 
one would have found fault ; the others would have eaten 
dry bread and been content in looking at him. 

The Abbe himself hardly noticed the cares by which he 
was surrounded. He was not in the least a gourmand. 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 243 

He eat little and hardly knew what he eat, so entirely was 
his mind occupied with other things. He had yielded to 
his mother’s entreaties in accepting the companionship of 
the Mourets, and enjoyed in their dining-room, only the 
pleasure of being free from the hourly, material cares of 
existence. 

He went on his tranquil path, by degrees habituated to 
having his every wish anticipated — -not in the least aston- 
ished thereby, nor yet at all bowed down by the debt of 
gratitude, and absolutely unconscious of the feminine eyes 
which anxiously watched each Line in his grave face. 

And Mouret was forgotten and ignored. He sat with 
his arms on the table, waiting like a child, until Marthe 
should attend to him. She served him last as a general 
thing, and Rose again advised her what to give. 

“ No, not that; the Abbe may like that. My master 
likes the little bones; give him the head.” 

Mouret ate his portion timorously. He felt that Madame 
Faujas watched him if he cut a slice of bread, and he re- 
flected a full minute with his eyes on the bottle, before he 
ventured to fill his glass. Once by mistake he took a little 
from the Curb’s bottle of Bordeaux. It was a frightful 
mistake, and for a month he heard of little else from Rose, 
who taunted him with it on every occasion, and indulged 
in many other small ebullitions of feminine spite. She ar- 
ranged his seat in such a way that a leg of the table came 
between his knees, left in his glass the lint from the towels, 
and put the salt and the pepper at the other end of the 
table. Mouret was very fond of mustard, and the only 


244 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


one in the house who cared for it. He went himself and 
bought at three different times three pots, which as regu- 
larly disappeared. His dinner was spoiled for him with- 
out mustard ; but the thing of all others he found hardest 
to bear was, that the place which had been his, for so many 
years near the window; from which he could look out at his 
beloved garden, was given to a stranger. He felt in his 
new seat near the door as if he were dining among 
strangers. 

Marthe had none of the petty malice evinced by her 
servant. She treated Mouret with toleration, as if he had 
been a poor relation, and often did not know whether he 
were at the table or not. She never addressed him, and 
seemed to regard the Abbe Faujas as the real head of the 
house. 

Mouret did not rebel. He exchanged a few polite words 
with the Priest, and took no notice of the attacks made by 
the cook. When he had finished, which was always 
before the others, he folded his napkin methodically and 
retired. 

Pose explained her master’s conduct after her own 
fashion to Madame Faujas. 

“ Before you came here,” she said, u he was really a ter- 
rible man, and made us all tremble before him ; but Ma- 
dame made up her mind to have the upper hand, and she 
did. He is in terror of your son ; yes, Madame, he fears 
the Cure. Sometimes I really think he is losing his mind. 
But I don’t know why we should any of us trouble our- 
selves about him — he is not much in our way, after all ! ” 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


245 


Madame Faujas replied that Monsieur Mouret was a 
most worthy man ; his only fault was that he was not reli- 
gious, but that would come later, probably. And the old 
lady trotted about the house, from attic to cellar, precisely 
as if it belonged to her. Mouret, when he met her, remem- 
bered the day that these people arrived — when in her 
worn black garments and carrying her heavy basket — she 
looked into each room with the ease of a person who visits 
a house for sale. 

Now that the Faujas eat with the Mourets, the second 
floor belonged more especially to the Frouche pair, who 
had gradually become very noisy. Madame Faujas, when 
she was in the kitchen and heard loud voices and heavy 
footsteps, would look up quickly. One night the Abbe, 
who had sat late writing, heard a very strange sound on 
the stair-case. Opening his door hastily, he beheld 
Frouche, most outrageously drunk, going up-stairs on his 
knees. The Abbe picked him up in his strong arms, and 
pitched him into the room where Olympe lay in bed 
reading a novel, and sipping a glass of punch on the table 
by her side. 

“ Listen to me,” said Faujas, livid with anger. “ You 
will please pack your trunks to-morrow morning and 
depart.” 

“And why, pray?” answered Olympe, carelessly; “we 
are very comfortable here.” 

“ Be quiet ! ” said the Priest, sternly. “ You are a miser- 
able, thankless woman, who has always done all in her 
power to injure me. Think of the disgrace, if your 


246 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


husband were seen in the state he is in now ! You will 
leave to-morrow ! ” 

Olympe raised herself, and finished her glass of punch. 

“Not much/’ she said, with a sneer. “Not much will 
I go, my good brother ! ” 

Frouche laughed. He was good-natured when he was 
tipsy. 

“'There is no need of being so angry,” he stammered. 
“ There is nothing the matter with me — a little dizziness, 
that is all. But the young men are queer here, Faujas. 
Now there is that young fellow — the son of Dr. Porquier 
- — he is actually kept by an Arlesian ; a beauty she is, too.” 

The Priest was standing looking at him sternly, with 
his arms folded over his broad chest. 

“No, Faujas; you need not be afraid of my doing you 
any harm. I know what I am about. I won’t take a 
glass of anything in the day ; but when it comes night, I 
shall have my liberty. No one will see me in the streets, 
for they are absolutely deserted after ten o’clock. It is a 
queer place, this — very queer.” 

“ Beast ! ” said the Priest between his closed teeth. 

“ You want to quarrel, do you ? Very well ; go ahead ! 
I need you no longer. I can even lend you a hundred 
francs, if you want them.” 

And he pulled forth a roll of bank notes, which he 
spread out on his knees, amid roars of foolish laughter. 
Then he passed them under the nose of the Abbe, and sent 
them flying through the air. Olympe leaped from the 
bed half naked, and gathered up the notes, which she 


THE CONQUEST OP PLA8SANS. 


247 


stuffed under the bolster. Meanwhile the Abbe looked 
about him in great surprise. He saw bottles of liquor 
arranged along the sideboard, an uncut pate upon the 
chimney, and sugar plums in an old box. The room was 
filled with recent purchases; dresses were thrown on all 
the chairs ; a package of lace lay half unfolded ; a new coat 
was hung on the window blind ; a superb bear skin was 
spread by the bedside ; on the night table was a small gold 
watch in a saucer of old porcelain. 

“Who are they pillaging ?” thought the Priest. Then 
he suddenly remembered that he had seen his sister kissing 
Madame Mouret’s hands. 

“ Miserable woman ! ” he exclaimed. “Are you a 
thief? ” 

Frouche tried to rise; his wife pushed him back. 

“Be quiet,” she said, “and go to sleep.” 

And turning to her brother, she calmly added : 

“ It is one o’clock now, and if you have anything dis- 
agreeable to say to us, you had best choose another hour. 
My husband had no business to get tipsy, but that is no 
reason why you should insult him. We have had several 
discussions, and this is to be the last one, do you under- 
stand? We are brother and sister, are we not? Very 
well, then, we should share and share. You live like a 
fighting-cock, waited on by inches by the simple woman 
below, and her cook. That is your affair. We don’t 
intend to look in your plate nor carry off your dainty bits. 
We mean to let you sail your own boat, but we intend to 
claim the same liberty for ourselves, and it does not strike 
me that we are very unreasonable in doing so.” 


248 THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 

The Priest was about to speak. 

“ I understand/’ she continued, hastily ; “ I know very 
well that you are afraid of our marring some of your plots 
and plans. The best way to avoid that risk is, for you not 
to meddle with us! You are not especially sharp, in spite 
of your knowing airs. We have the same interests as 
yourself, have we not — so why should we hurt you? 
Now go to bed; I shall scold Frouche to-morrow, and 
then send him to you. You will give him your orders.” 

“To be sure!” muttered the drunken man. “I don’t 
want the little lady down-stairs. I like her gold pieces 
very much better — but Faujas is so queer! ” 

Whereupon Olympe laughed impudently, looking her 
brother straight in the face. She had gone back to bed 
and settled herself very comfortably among her pillows. 
The Priest, who was very pale, looked at her for a mo- 
ment, and then turned on his heel and went away in 
silence. She resumed her novel, and Frouche snored on 
the couch. 

The next day, when Frouche was sober, he had a long 
conversation with the Abb6 Faujas. He then returned to 
his wife and laid before her the conditions on which peace 
was made. 

“Listen, my dear,” she said, “do just what he tells you. 
Try, above all things, to make yourself useful to him. I 
put on very brave airs when he is here, but I know very 
well that he can put us into the street whenever he 
chooses, and that he will do so, if we go too far. Are you 
sure he will let us stay now?” 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 249 

“You need not be troubled,” answered the man, with 
a laugh ; “ he needs me ! ” 

From this time Frouche went out every night after nine 
. o’clock. He told his wife he went on business for the 
Abbe. This Olympe did not believe; but she was not 
jealous, and she liked to be comfortable. She preferred 
to take her liquors alone, and eat her dainties by herself, 
while she lay tucked up in bed, reading her novels, of 
which she had a large store from an old circulating library 
near by. Frouche invariably came in more or less tipsy, 
and took off his shoes in the vestibule, that he might come 
up without noise. If he were especially drunk, his wife 
insisted on his sleeping on the sofa, and then followed a 
silent, fierce contest ; if she saw herself in danger of being 
worsted, she would say: 

“ I hear Ovide ! Ovide is coming ! ” 

He was then as wax in her hands, as timid as a child 
who hears the cry of “wolf,” and accepted the sofa with- 
out further dispute. At sunrise he rose, and made a careful 
toilette, wiping from his discolored face the shameful stains 
of the night, and putting on a certain cravat, which, as he 
said, gave him an especial air of respectability. He did 
not even look at the cafes as he passed. At the Institution 
he was much respected. Sometimes, when the young girls 
were playing in the court-yard, he would look down on 
them with a paternal air, while a wicked light lurked 
under his half-closed lids. 

The Frouche pair were held in check by Madame 
Faujas. The mother and daughter quarrelled incessantly, 


250 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


the latter complaining of having been sacrificed for her 
brother. Both women were eager for the same prey, and 
each was determined, that the other should not carry 
off the lion’s share. Madame Faujas wanted the entire 
house, and defended it against Olympe’s eager clutches. 
When she discovered the enormous sums that the latter 
was obtaining from Marthe, her rage was something fear- 
ful. Her son turned away in disgust from her complaints, 
and when she saw that he was determined to close his eyes 
to what was going on about him, she had a terrible ex- 
planation with her daughter, whom she called a robber, 
and abused as violently, as if she had detected her with her 
hands in her own pocket. 

“ That will do, mamma ! ” answered Olympe. “ It is 
not your purse I empty. Besides, I only take her 
money; you and my brother take her food — where is the 
difference? ” 

“What on earth do you mean?” cried her mother. 
“ Do you suppose we don’t pay for our meals ? Ask the 
cook ; she keeps the accounts.” 

Olympe burst out laughing as she replied : 

“I know all about it! You pay for the radishes and 
the butter, don’t you ? You had best attend to your own 
affairs, and not come up here and bother me. You know 
that Qvide has told you both, he would have no quarrelling 
and noise ! ” 

Madame Faujas grumbled all the way down-stairs. 
This allusion to noise compelled her to beat a retreat, but 
she avenged herself whenever Olympe went into the 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 251 

garden, following her everywhere and watching that she 
did not help herself to the fruit. She quarrelled with 
Rose because the latter lent Olympe a saucepan ; but she 
did not dare to say anything to Marthe, lest in some way 
the Al)b6 should suffer. 

“ If I were not here,” she said to her son, “ your sister 
would steal the very bread from under your hands ; but I 
will look out for you.” 

Marthe saw nothing of the drama going on about her. 
The house seemed to her less lonely of late, and that was 
all. In reality, it was like an Hdtel garni , with its stifled 
sound of voices, its doors banging, the constant going up 
and down stairs, the all-pervading odors of the constant 
cooking going on in the kitchen, where Rose was always 
as busy as if she were head cook in a restaurant. There 
was a constant procession of trades-people on the stairs. 
Olympe had undertaken to cultivate her hands, and would 
not wash a dish. She ordered everything from a pastry 
cook’s, near by, and Marthe looked on with a smile. She 
no longer liked to be alone with the fire that was con- 
suming her. 

Meanwhile Mouret lived almost entirely in the room he 
called his office, and very seldom entered his garden. 

“What do you suppose he does there?” said Rose to 
Madame Faujas. 

With the coming of summer, the house was even more 
animated. The Abbe received the circles from the rival 
gardens on either side. At Marthe’ s order, Rose had pur- 
chased a number of rustic chairs and placed them at the 
16 


252 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


foot of the garden, under the grape arbor. Every Tuesday 
the little door was opened wide, and ladies and gentlemen 
came to pay their respects to the Cure, and the rival sets 
were soon as one. 

“Do you not fear,” said Monsieur de Bourden to 
Bastoil, one day, “that a wrong interpretation may be put 
on these meetings? You know the elections are near at 
hand.” 

“ Why should these meetings be found fault with ? ” 
answered Monsieur Bastoil. “We are not in the Prefect’s 
garden ; we are on neutral ground. It is an unceremoni- 
ous exchange of visits between neighbors. No one lias 
any business to interfere with what goes on in the back of 
my house. The front belongs to the Public, perhaps, and 
in the street Monsieur Pequeur and I only bow.” 

“ Monsieur Pequeur is a man who improves on ac- 
quaintance,” remarked his companion, after a brief silence. 

“Unquestionably, and I am glad to have made his 
acquaintance. And what an excellent person the Abb6 
Faujas turns out to be! No, I am not afraid of being 
misunderstood by going to pay my respects to our good 
neighbor.” 

But Monsieur de Bourden became more and more un- 
easy as the general elections grew nearer. Politics were 
never touched on in the Mouret garden, however. 

One afternoon, de Bourden exclaimed : 

“ Say, Dr. Porquier, have you seen the Moniteur of 
this morning? The Marquis has at last opened his lips — 
poor Langrifort ! ” 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


253 


The Abbe raised his finger with an air of good-natured 
reproof. 

“ No politics, gentlemen, no politics ! ” 

Monsieur Pequeur des Saulaies was talking a little 
apart with de Rastoil, and both men pretended not to 
hear. Madame de Condamin smiled, as she went on with 
what she was saying to the Abbe Surin. 

“ Then your surplices are stiffened with gum arabic ? ” 

“ Yes, Madame,” answered the young Priest. “ Some 
laundresses use ordinary starch, but it is not good.” 

“Very well, then,” answered the lady in a tone of 
earnest conviction, “I must insist on my woman using 
gum arabic for my skirts.” 

Then the Abbe Surin kindly gave her the name and 
address of the woman whom he employed, writing it on 
the back of one of his visiting cards. 

The men and women spent an hour in conversation — 
dress, the weather, and the social events of the week being 
the topics selected. The good Abbe Raquette was often 
to be seen at these outdoor reunions; but the person who 
w’as most assiduous was Monsieur de Condamin, who 
found infinite amusement at the intrigues of this little 
world — intrigues which he amused himself by hunting 
out and defeating. This gentleman, in his precise toilette, 
was very fond of young people, and devoted himself to 
the Rastoil young ladies, while the son of the Rastoil 
mansion, he worried out of his life, by pretending to be 
madly jealous of. This was all the more trying and 
harassing to the youth, since he w r as really dazzled by 


254 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


Madame de Condamin, and was always to be seen hovering 
about her. 

The Abbe Faujas was amiable to every one, even to 
this terrible Condamin, whom he disliked and distrusted. 
He kept himself as much as possible in the background, 
and seemed to feel only the natural pleasure of a host, who 
sees agreeable people meet and understand each other 
under his roof. Marthe rarely appeared. She did not 
like to see the Abbe thus surrounded. The Frouche pair 
looked on and sneered from behind their curtains, while 
Madame Faujas and Pose looked on admiringly from the 
vestibule. 

“Any one could tell at once, Madame,” said the cook, 
“ that your son has seen much of the world from the very 
way he receives the Prefect. Why do you never put on 
a silk dress and show yourself among them ? ” 

But the old peasant woman shrugged her shoulders. 

“ It is not because he is ashamed of me/’ she said ; “ but 
I might worry him in some way. No, I prefer to look 
on from here. It gives me much pleasure ! ” 

“ Yes, I see, and you ought to be very proud of such a 
son ! He is not much like my master, who actually 

nailed up that door to keep people out. Never a dinner 

or a supper was given here ! The garden was as 

empty as a desert. Why does he never go out there, I 

say? And what oil earth is he doing locked into that 
room up-stairs? Let us go up now, and see if we can 
find out what he is doing.” 

That afternoon the garden was especially noisy, and the 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


255 


laughter came into the house through the open windows, 
while a waiter from the Restaurant was making a great 
clatter within doors in carrying away empty dishes and 
bottles from the Frouche quarters. 

Mouret had locked himself into his office. 

“ The key is in the way ; I can’t see/’ said Rose, after 
putting her eye to the key-hole. 

“ Wait a bit,” whispered her companion, and turned 
the end of the key a little as she spoke. 

Mouret was seated in the centre of the room before a 
great empty table, covered thick with dust. On it was 
neither book nor paper. He was leaning back in his 
chair, with his arms hanging at his side, and with his eyes 
fixed, on vacancy. He was as motionless as if cut out of 
marble. 

The two women looked at him one after the other. 

“ He gives me cold shivers,” said Rose, as they went 
softly down-stairs. “ Hid you notice his eyes ? And did 
you see the dust ? I don’t believe he has ever written a 
word in that room. He seems to be playing dead, while 
the rest of the house is gay ! ” 


256 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

IN THE WATCHES OF THE NIGHT. 

T HE state of Marthe’s health occasioned Dr. Porquier 
great anxiety, of which, however, he allowed no 
trace to be visible in his face or words. He advised his 
patient to keep in the open air as much as possible; 
whenever the weather was pleasant, to walk and drive, 
but to be careful not to overfatigue herself. Then Marthe, 
a prey to excessive restlessness, fell into a way of going 
off every morning after breakfast in an old caleche, hired 
from a livery stable. She drove two or three leagues, and 
returned just in time for dinner at six o’clock. 

She had obeyed the physician’s orders merely with the 
hope that sometimes the Abbe would go with her, but he 
always pretended to be too busy, and she was compelled 
to content herself with the society either of Madame 
Faujas or Olympe. 

One afternoon, as she was driving through the village 
of Tulettes, near the place owned by her Uncle Macquart, 
he saw her from his terrace, where he stood in the shade 
of his mulberry trees. 

“And Mouret! Why did not Mouret come?” he 
shouted to her. 

She was obliged to stay a few minutes with her uncle, 
explaining that she could not remain to dinner, as she 
was far from well. 


TIIE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


257 


“ I shall kill a chicken all the same/’ he said, “ and if 
you won’t eat it here, you may take it home with you.” 

He brought out the chicken, and made her lift it. 

“ Plump ; isn’t it? ” he asked, with pride. 

He compelled the two women to alight from their car- 
riage, and take a glass of wine with him, sitting under the 
trees. 

“ It is pleasant here,” he said. “ In summer I always 
smoke my pipe under these trees. In winter I sit against 
that wall in the sunshine. I have plenty of nice vegeta- 
bles all the year round. I am growing old, and it is high 
time for me to have a little enjoyment.” 

He rubbed his hands, and looked about with a satisfied 
air. Suddenly his face darkened. 

“ Have you seen your father, lately?” he asked, 
abruptly. “ Do you see that wheat-field over there? Well, 
it is for sale. If he had chosen, it might have been ours 
to-day ; but he would not do it, and yet he is so rich that 
he does not know what to do with his money. And the 
last time I tried to see him about it, he actually refused to 
see me. He made a mistake — yes, he made a mistake!” 

He went for glasses. Mar the just tasted the wine, of 
which he was very proud. Olympe and he finished the 
bottle. 

“And your Cure, what have you done with him?” asked 
Macquart, suddenly. 

Marthe, surprised and shocked, looked at him without 
speaking. 

“ I am told,” said the uncle, with a coarse laugh, “ that 


258 THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 

you and he are too intimate. None of these Priests 
amount to much. They are all tipplers and free livers, 
and so I warned Mouret in the beginning. I can’t endure 
these animals. I only know one — the Abbe Fenil — he is 
no better than the others, but he is as mischievous as a 
monkey, and amuses me. He and your Cure are not very 
good friends, I hear ! ” 

Marthe was deadly pale. 

“ This lady is the sister of the Abb6 Faujas,” she said, 
turning to Olympe, who listened curiously. 

“ Is she?” answered Macquart. “Well! Iam saying 
no harm any way ; and she will take another glass with 
me?” 

Olympe smilingly consented, but Marthe rose to depart; 
while Macquart insisted on her visiting his grounds. At 
the end of the garden she stood and looked with desolate 
eyes on a great white building, built on the slope of the 
hill, a few hundred yards from Tulettes. The narrow 
windows, regularly piercing the fagade, gave the place the 
look of a prison or hospital. 

“ Yes, that is the lunatic asylum,” said Macquart ; “and 
that fellow there in gray is one of the keepers. He often 
comes to see me.” 

“Alexandre,” he called, “come here and show my niece 
which is the window of our poor old lady’s room.” 

Alexandre showed himself quite obliging. 

“ You see those three trees,” he said. “ Well, right 
behind the one at the left, you will see a fountain in the 
corner of the court-yard. Count the windows from there; 
the fifth one is hers.” 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


259 


Marthe did not speak ; her pale lips quivered, and her 
eyes were riveted on this window. Uncle Macquart 
looked too. 

“ Sometimes I can see her/’ he said ; “ but it is in the 
morning when the sun is on the other side. She is very 
well, isn’t she, Alexandre? I can watch over her from 
here;” and he chuckled with delight. 

“ You see, my child, the Rougon heads are no steadier 
than the Macquarts, and I often say to myself, as I sit and 
look at that asylum, that as likely as not, the whole set of 
us will end our days where mamma is. I am not much 
afraid for myself, but still I must run my chance. Any- 
way, I shall be on hand to bid Alexandre look out for 
them all; though, to be sure, none of them have been any 
too good to me. But it is a mighty good piece of luck 
for you,” he added, with his wolfish smile, “that I 
happen to be living at Tulettes.” 

Marthe shook from head to foot. Although she knew 
that he enjoyed torturing the people, to whom he brought 
chickens and rabbits, she felt, with a terrible sickness at 
the heart, that what he said might be true, and that all 
the family would end their days in that terrible place. 
She turned away hastily. 

“ I cannot stay another moment,” she exclaimed, 
resisting all her uncle’s entreaties. 

He put her into the carriage, and laid the chicken on 
her knees. 

“It is for Mouret, you understand,” he said, with a 
meaning in his tone; “ for Mouret, and for no one else, and 


260 


THE CONQUEST OF FLASSANS. 


when I come in to see him, I shall ask him if it was 
tender/’ 

He winked at Olympe as he spoke. The coachman 
raised his whip, when Macquart stopped him again. 

“ Marthe,” he said, u see your father, and talk to him 
about that wheat-field, will you? We are too old friends 
to quarrel about trifles now. Besides he knows he would 
come out badly. Tell him so from me.” 

The caleche was at last allowed to start, and as 
Olympe looked back, she saw Macquart drawing the cork 
of the second bottle of wine. Marthe told the coachman 
never again to go near Tulettes. She was growing weary 
of these drives, and would have been glad to have given 
them up as soon as she knew that the Abbe would never 
accompany her. 

Marthe was now a very different woman from the 
Marthe whom we introduced to our readers. She was 
refined and etherealized by the state of nervous excitement 
in which she lived. Her bourgeoise stolidity — that heavi- 
ness acquired by fifteen years of sleepy inaction behind a 
counter — disappeared in the flame of her devotion. She 
dressed better, and talked well at the Rougons’ every 
Thursday. 

u Madame Mouret looks like a young girl,” said 
Madame de Condamin in great wonder. 

“ Yes,” murmured Dr. Porquier, shaking his head, 
“she is certainly changed.” 

Marthe had indeed a season of rare beauty. A soft 
color in her cheeks, and flashing dark eyes, altered her 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


261 


greatly. It seemed as if her forgotten youth burned 
within her at forty, with a glow and splendor unknown to 
her before. Carried away by her enthusiasm, and an 
imperative need of prayer at all hours, she disobeyed the 
Abbe Faujas. She lived on the cold, hard stones of 
Saturnin, drank in the Canticles, basked in the blaze of 
the candles on the altars. She felt a physical need of 
this excitement, and her longing was only soothed when she 
quivered from head to foot in the thunder of the organ, 
or knelt hushed and mute in the awe of the Holy Com- 
munion. At those times her poor frail body was no 
longer a hindrance to her. She was like a pure flame 


ascending to heaven. 

The Abbe was more severe than ever. She astonished 
him by this ardor. He asked her many questions in 
regard to her childhood one evening, and then went over to 


Madame Pougon, where he watched her with puzzled eyes. 

“ Why do you not let the lady go to church as much as 
she wishes, my son?” asked his mother. “She is good 
and kind to us ; let her have her own way.” 

“ She is killing herself,” said the Priest. 

“ That is her own lookout. She had better kill herself 
praying, than with indigestions like Olympe ! If you are 
not less severe with Madame Mouret, you will be sorry.” 
One day, when she repeated this advice, he said in a 
gloomy tone : 

“ Mother, this woman will be the obstacle.” 

“She!” cried the old peasant woman; “she adores you, 
Ovide. You can do just as you will with her, if you would 
Only cease to scold her.” 


262 THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 

The Abb6 himself began to realize that he must be 
more gentle. He feared some kind of an esclandre, and 
by degrees allowed Marthe greater liberty — gave her 
permission to make her retreats, and to recite prayers 
before each Station of the Cross. He received her twice 
in the week at his Confessional at Saint-Saturnin. 

Marthe, no longer hearing that terrible voice reproaching 
her for her piety, as if it were a crime, thought that God 
was showering grace upon her. At last she entered into 
the delights of Paradise. She had hours of weeping — 
hours when tears poured from her eyes, and she felt them 
not — nervous attacks which left her utterly exhausted, 
when Pose would take her in her arms and place her on 
her bed, where she would lie for hours without lifting a 
finger, and with her eyes only half-open. 

One afternoon the cook became terribly alarmed, 
and really thought her mistress was dying. It never 
entered her head tc go to her master, but she flew up-stairs 
and entreated the Abbe to come down. When he was 
there she went for some ether, leaving him alone with this 
almost unconscious woman. 

He took her hands in his. She instantly began to 
murmur incoherent words. She opened her eyes, and 
when she beheld him leaning over her, the oolor rushed to 
her face, and she turned her head away. 

“Are you better, my dear child ?” he asked. “I have 
been very anxious about you.” 

She burst into wild sobs, and clung to his arm. 

“Ah!” she murmured; “I suffer no longer. I am 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 263 

happy ! At last I am happy ! Let me weep : my tears 
are my great joy! Ah ! how good you are to come! I 
have long been waiting for you.” 

Her voice grew fainter and fainter. 

“ Who will give me wings that I may fly unto you? 
My soul, far from you, pants to join you ; languishes with- 
out you ; longs and sighs for you, oh ! my God ! Oh ! 
my only good ! My consolation, my treasure, my happi- 
ness and my life, my God and my all ! ” 

She smiled as these words fell from her lips. She 
clasped her hands, seeming to see a halo about the head 
of the Priest, who had hastily drawn himself back, and far 
from the reach of her eager hands. 

“Be reasonable,” he said, in a severe tone. “God will 
refuse your homage if you offer it to him thus. You must 
take care of yourself now.” 

Rose returned in despair, at not having found the ether, 
and he again drew nearer the bed, saying to Marthe, in a 
gentle voice : 

“ Do not be disturbed ; God will be touched by your 
great love. When the hour comes, His Divine grace will 
descend upon you, and will fill you with eternal joy.” 
When he left the room he left Marthe radiant and at 
peace, and from this time she was as wax in his hands. 
She had become very useful to him ; certain delicate mis- 
sions to Madame de Condamin and Madame Rastoil he 
could intrust to her. She was absolutely obedient, not 
seeking to understand, and saying only, precisely what he 
bade her say. He took no precautions with her, but 


264 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


treated her as if she were a mere machine — to come and 
go and do his will. She would have begged in the streets, 
had he bade her do so. And when she became restless 
and extended her hands to him — hands quivering with 
passion — he crushed her to the earth with one word. She 
never dared utter the words which hovered oil her lips. 
Between him and her, was a wall of stern anger and 
disgust. When he came out from these brief contests, he 
shook his broad shoulders, full of self-contempt that he 
should be checked in his career by such childishness. He 
washed his hand that she had touched, with fierce disgust. 

“ Why do you never use those handkerchiefs which 
Madame Mouret gave you ? ” asked his mother. “ The 
poor woman would be so happy to see them in your hands. 
She spent a month at least in embroidering the ciphers 
upon them.” 

He uttered an impatient exclamation : 

“Use them yourself, mother. They are a woman’s 
handkerchiefs. I loathe their very odor ! ” 

In spite of Marthe’s submission to the Priest, in her 
every-day life and to others she was exacting and quarrel- 
some. Rose said she had never seen her in such a mood. 

Her hatred of her husband increased every day. The 
old Rougon rage awoke in her against this son of a 
Macquart — this man whom she sincerely felt to be the 
torment of her life. 

In the dining-room, when Madame Faujas or Olympe 
was with her, she no longer restrained her tongue, but 
talked incessantly of Mouret. 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


265 


u To think,” she sai d, u that for twenty years I sat 
between a jar of oil and a bag of almonds, with a pen 
behind my ear ! Never a pleasure, never a present ! He 
has robbed me of my children, and is quite capable of 
going off now and saying, that I make his life intolerable 
to him. Happily, all of you know the truth ! ” 

She attacked Mouret in this way, without any new pro- 
vocation. All that he did — his looks, his gestures, the rare 
words he spoke — one and all drove her wild. She could 
not meet him in the corridor without being seized by this 
senseless rage. The quarrels burst out at the end of the 
repasts, when Mouret, without waiting for dessert, folded 
his napkin, and rose in silence. 

“ You had best leave the table when others do,” she 
said sharply. “ I call it very uncivil to do as you are 
doing ! ” 

“I have finished, and I am going away,” he would 
answer, slowly. 

But she took it into her head that he did this to insult 
the Abbe, and her anger burst all bounds. 

a I am absolutely ashamed of you ! ” she cried. “ What 
should I do now, if I had not found friends who console 
me for your brutality ! You do not even know how to 
behave at the table. Remain, if you please; if you do 
not eat yourself, you can look at us ! ” 

He continued folding his napkin, as if he had not heard, 
then quietly rose and went up-stairs. She waited until 
she heard his door lock, and then she burst into tears. 

“ The monster ! ” she sobbed ; u he will kill me ! ” 


266 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


Madame Faujas consoled her, while Rose repeated the 
words used by her mistress: 

“ Monster ! ” she cried. 

Mart he, whose mind was somewhat affected, imagined 
that her husband wished to kill her. This was a fixed 
idea. She pretended that he was only awaiting his chance, 
but that she was never alone with him, except at night 
when he knew that her cries for help would be heard. 
Rose declared she had seen her master hide a big stick in 
his wardrobe. 

Madame Faujas and Olympe readily believed all these 
tales, pitied their landlady, and in fact looked upon them- 
selves as her guardians. That savage, as they called 
Mouret, would not dare attack her in their presence, they 
said ; and they bade her call to them at any hour in the 
night if she were attacked. 

The house held its breath, as it were, awaiting some 
tragedy. 

“He is capable of anything,” said the cook. 

That year Marthe was more devout than ever during 
Holy Week. On Good Friday she knelt in the dark 
church, while the candles went out one by one, and a wail 
of desolate voices seemed to float down from the vaulted 
roof. It seemed to her that her breath was going out 
with these candles, and when the last was extinguished, 
and the dead, black wall was in front of her, she fell for- 
ward unconscious. For an hour she lay in this condition 
without one of the women about her suspecting this crisis. 
The church was vacant when she came to herself. The 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 267 

agony she suffered in her head was almost intolerable. She 
put up her hands as if to tear away the thorns which she 
felt piercing her brain. That evening at dinner she was 
very strange. The nervous tension had in no way abated ; 
when she closed her eyes, she could still see the flickering 
flames of those expiring candles. She looked at her hands 
mechanically, and tried to find the holes left by the nails. 
Her flesh tingled with the rods by which she had been 
scourged. The whole terrible drama was again enacted 
within herself. 

Madame Faujas seeing her so ill, entreated her to go to 
bed early, and, indeed, went up-stairs with her. Mouret 
was in his office, where all his evenings were spent. When 
Marthe ceased shivering, and said she was better, Madame 
Fauj as proposed to blow out the candle that she might 
sleep better; but the invalid started up in terror. 

“No! no!” she cried. “Do not put out the light. 
Let it stand on the commode, where it will not be on my 
eyes; but I should die if I were left in the dark.” And 
with wild and horrified eyes, she shuddered from head to 
foot. 

“It is horrible,” she murmured, faintly, “perfectly 
horrible ! ” 

She sank back on her pillows, and seemed inclined to 
sleep. Madame Faujas left the room softly. All the 
house was quiet at ten o’clock. Dose, at that hour, looked 
through the keyhole of her master’s office, and saw him 
seated as usual at his table, on which stood a candle wi tli 
a long, untrimmed wick. He was sound asleep. 

17 


268 THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 

“And I shall not wake him/* muttered Rose. 

At midnight the house was perfectly quiet, when a wild 
cry suddenly rang through the house. This one cry was 
succeeded by shriek after shriek, hoarse and choked, as if 
uttered by a victim whose throat was grasped by the hand 
of a murderer. 

The Abbe awoke with a start, and hastily called to his 
mother, who threw on a skirt and a shawl, and, as she 
passed the door of the cook’s room, she called out : 

“ Come quick ! Madame Mouret is being murdered ! ** 

The appalling cries redoubled. The whole household 
hurried to the scene, Olympe aud Frouche — the latter 
slightly tipsy. Rose pushed at the door, then beat upon 
it with her clenched hands. 

“ Open the door, Madame ! ** she cried, hysterically, 
“open the door! ** 

Long-drawn breaths were at first the only sound, then 
a body fell, and a terrible contest seemed to be going on 
upon the floor, amid the breaking of furniture. Dull 
blows smote upon the wall, followed by a terrible groan — 
so terrible that the Faujas people turned pale. 

“Her husband is killing her/* murmured Olympe. 

“You are right/* said the cook, sobbing, “I saw him 
hours ago pretending to be asleep.** 

And again attacking the door, she shouted : 

“Let us in, sir; the Police will be sent for, if you do 
not open the door.** 

Again the frightful shrieks commenced. 

“ This will never do!** said the Abbe. “Step aside — ** 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


269 


He put one of his strong shoulders against the door. 
The door yielded, and the women rushed into the room, 
where they saw the strangest sight. 

In the centre of the floor lay Marthe — her garments 
torn to pieces, her flesh bleeding and purple with bruises. 
Her long hair was entangled in the legs of a chair, and 
her hands were clasped around the commode. In the far- 
thest corner stood Mouret holding a candle, and looking 
at his wife as she lay convulsed upon the floor with a 
dazed, horror-stricken look. 

The Abbe loosened the poor woman’s hands. 

“ You are a monster!” cried Rose, shaking her fist at 
her master. “ You would certainly have killed her if we 
had not arrived ! ” 

The other women gathered around Marthe. 

“ Poor soul ! ” said the old lady. “ She had a presenti- 
ment of this to-night; she was terribly frightened before 
I left her.” 

“ Where are you hurt?” asked Olympe. “ Do you 
think any bones are broken? Her shoulder is black, and 
her knee has the skin all off. Do not be afraid ; we will 
take care of you now.” 

Marthe allowed them to do as they pleased; and while 
the women examined her — forgetting in their agitation 
that any men were present — Frouche watched the Abbe 
out of the corner of his eye while the Priest arranged the 
furniture. 

When Marthe was placed in her bed again, and lay 
quietly with closed eyes, the women lingered a little, and 


270 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


looked curiously about the room. Mouret still stood in 
the corner, and still held the candle ; he seemed utterly 
stunned and stupefied by the events of the night. 

“ I assure you,” he said, “ I never laid a finger upon 
her ! ” 

This was more than Rose could bear. 

“Ah!” she cried, “you have been waiting for a chance 
for a full month. We all knew it, and we have all 
watched you. Poor dear soul! And yet you attacked 
her at last!” 

The other women, much as they would have liked, 
did not venture to speak in this way, but only looked at 
him with fierce, threatening eyes. 

“ I assure you,” repeated Mouret, in a gentle voice, “ I 
never touched her. I was just going to bed, and I had 
tied my silk handkerchief around my head. I took up 
the candle, which stood on the commode, when just at that 
moment she woke with a start. She extended her arms 
with a shriek; then began to pound herself, and tear her 
flesh with her nails.” 

The cook shook her head. 

“That is a likely story ! ” she muttered. “Why did 
you not open the door when we knocked ? ” 

“ I tell you,” he continued, “ I never touched her. I 
have no idea what the matter was. She threw herself on 
the floor. She bit herself. She leaped up, and then 
pushed over the furniture. I did not dare go near her, 
and I could not get to the door without passing her. I 
called to you twice to come in, but she was screaming so 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


271 


loud that you did not hear me. I was terribly fright- 
ened. No” he continued, in a quiet, gentle tone, “ no ; 
I never touched her ! ” 

“ Oh ! of course not ; she beat herself! ” sneered Rose ; 
and then turning to Madame Faujas, she added : 

“ He must have thrown his stick out of the window 
when he heard us coming.” 

Mouret now placed the candle on the commode, and 
seated himself, with his hands on his knees. He no 
longer defended himself, but sat with his eyes fixed on the 
women who, with their garments loosely huddled about 
their shoulders, hovered around the bed. Frouche 
exchanged a glance with the Abbe. Poor Mouret struck 
them as being as meek as a lamb, and not in the least 
formidable, as he sat there in his night-shirt and a yellow 
silk handkerchief drawn close over his bald head. They 
went toward the bed, and looked at Marthe, who, with a 
drawn, haggard face, seemed to be just awaking. 

“ What is it, Rose?” she said. “Why are all these 
people here? Bid them all go away, and let me rest.” 

Rose hesitated a moment. 

“ Your husband is here, Madame,” she murmured. 
“Are you afraid to be left alone with him?” 

Marthe looked at her in great astonishment. 

“ No, no,” she answered. “ Go away, all of you ; I am 
in great need of sleep.” 

Then the five strangers left the room, and Mouret 
remained, sitting with vacant eyes and helpless hands. 

“ He shall not lock the door at all events,” said the 


272 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


cook, with grim satisfaction. “At the very first sound 
I shall be here ; I shall lie down all dressed. Did you 
hear, Madame Faujas, the terrible falsehood my poor 
mistress told? She would sooner let herself be killed 
than accuse him! And what a hypocrite he is!” 

The three women talked for a few minutes on the land- 
ing outside the door, and decided there was no punishment 
severe enough for such a man. 

Frouche muttered in the ear of the Abbe: 

“ The landlady is not a bad-looking woman ; only I 
should not think it would be very pleasant to have a wife 
that squirmed like a worm on the floor!” 

The house relapsed into its former quiet, and the night 
wore away peaceably. The next day when the three 
women spoke to Marthe of this terrible scene, she seemed 
surprised, almost embarrassed, and would not answer. 
She waited until every one was out of the house before 
she sent for a man to repair the door. 

On Easter Sunday, Marthe enjoyed, at Saint-Saturnin, 
all the triumphant joys of the Resurrection. The dark- 
ness and gloom of Friday were swept away, and the 
church was all light and perfume. She amid this can- 
ticle of joy, felt a pang more terrible than those of Good 
Friday. 

She returned home with burning eyes and weary step, 
but in the evening she was more animated than usual. 
When she retired Mouret was already asleep. 

About midnight the most terrific cries rang again 

o o o 

through the house. The scene of two or three nights 


THE CONQUEST OF PEASSANS. 


273 


before was repeated. Only at the first knock on the door, 
Mouret threw it open. His face was pale and troubled. 
Marthe was all dressed, lying with her face down upon 
the bed. The waist of her dress was torn, and two deep 
scratches were seen on her throat. 

“ He meant to strangle her this time,” murmured Rose. 

The women undressed Marthe. Mouret having opened 
the door, returned to his bed, shivering and deadly pale. 
He made no reply to the cook’s accusations, and indeed 
hardly seemed to hear them. 

Similar scenes from this time took place at irregular 
intervals. The household was in constant fear, and at 
the slightest noise every one started up. Marthe avoided 
the subject entirely, and absolutely refused to allow Rose 
to arrange a bed for Mouret in his office. 

By degrees a rumor arose that strange things were going 
on at the Mouretsk It was said that the husband beat 
his wife regularly every night. Rose had made Madame 
Faujas and Olympe promise not to disclose the grim 
tragedy — but she herself, by her allusions and hints, had 
contributed to the neighborhood, the stories which were in 
circulation. The butcher said, with a knowing air, that 
Mouret had a right, and a very good reason to beat his 
wife. The fruiterer defended “ the poor lady,” while the 
baker declared that Mouret beat his wife merely because 
he was a brute, and liked to hurt her. 

When Olympe went to market to buy some fruit, the 
conversation invariably fell on Mouret. 

“Tell me. What is going on now at your house?” 


274 THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 

“Oh! nothing more than usual. The poor thing is 
crying her eyes out. I should be glad to know that she 
was dead; she has no joy in living!” 

“She bought some artichokes of me the other day, and 
one cheek had quite a scar on it ! ” 

“Oh! of course. That was some of his work. If you 
could only see her poor body. It is just one wound. I 
expect to find her with her head broken open some night.” 
“It must be dreadful for you to live in that house. I 
should move, for I should certainly be sick with such 
things going on ! ” 

“And this poor woman — what would become of her if 
we should go ? No, we must stay on her account. It is 
five sous, is it not, for these cherries?” 

“Yes, five sous. You are a good soul and a good 
friend ! ” 

This story of a husband who beat his wife regularly at 
midnight was especially calculated to interest all the gossips 
in the market. The most frightful particulars were daily 
given. One person declared that Moure t took his wife by 
the neck with his teeth, and that the Abbe Faujas was 
obliged to make three crosses in the air before he would 
release his prey. Then she added that Mouret fell 
unconscious on the floor, and a great black rat leaped 
from his mouth and disappeared. 

The tripe-seller on the corner announced as his private 
opinion that the wretch had been bitten by a mad dog! 

But this history did not meet with as ready belief among 
the better classes of the town. 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


275 


“Mouret is incapable of beating his wife,” said one 
retired merchant ; “ he looks much more as if he had 
been beaten himself!” 

“ No one can tell much about these things,” said a retired 
officer. “I knew a captain in my regiment whose wife 
regularly slapped his face, when he said anything she did 
not like. Perhaps it is the same thing with Mouret.” 

“ It may be that he is not over-fond of Cures in these 
days,” said a sneering voice. 

Madame Rougon for some time appeared to be ignorant 
of all this scandal, and complacently avoided understanding 
any allusion that was made in her presence. 

But one day, after a long visit which Monsieur Delangre 
had paid her, she hurried to her daughter’s, with tears in 
her eyes. 

“Ah ! my dearest ! ” she exclaimed, clasping her daughter 
in her arms; “I have just heard the most terrible things ! 
Can it be true that your husband has dared to lift his finger 
against you ? I gave a most formal denial to the story. 
I know Mouret well; he is rough, but he is not bad- 
hearted.” 

Marthe’s pale face flushed. She looked deadly ashamed 
whenever this subject was approached. 

“Madame will never complain ! ” cried Rose, as boldly 
as was her wont. “ I wanted to go and tell you long ago, 
but I knew that my mistress would never forgive me ! ” 

The old lady lifted her hands with an air of intense pain 
and surprise. 

“ It is true, then ! ” she murmured, and she began to 
weep. 


276 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


“ To have lived to this time, and see such things ! And 
this is the man to whom we have always been so kind ! 
It was Rougon, my dear, who wished you to marry him. 
In vain I told him that Mouret had a false face, and after 
your marriage he took you away from Plassans, fearing, 
possibly, that we should get some of his tiny fortune. 
Rut, thank Heaven, we did not need him. We were 
better off than he was, and that is why he did not like 
us. He is narrow-minded and so extremely jealous that 
he would never set foot in my salon. But you shall 
not remain with a monster like this, my child. Fortunately, 
there are laws.” 

“Dear mother, calm yourself,” murmured Marthe; 
“ things are much exaggerated, I assure you.” 

“ There! did I not tell you she would defend him?” 
asked the cook. 

At this moment the Abbe and Frouche, who were con- 
ferring together at the foot of the garden, came up the 
walk. 

“I am a most unhappy mother,” cried F6licit6, as soon 
as she saw the Priest. “ I have but one child near me, 
and now I learn that her eyes are rivers of tears. I implore 
you who live under her roof to console and protect her!” 

The Abbe looked at her keenly. He could not at once 
grasp the meaning of this sudden grief. 

“I have just seen a person whom I cannot name to 
you,” she continued, in her turn fixing her eyes on him. 
“This person has terrified me. My son-in-law is a vil- 
lain; he abuses his wife — sets the town at defiance. You 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


277 


will see what he intends doing when the elections come on. 
The last time it was he who ruled the Faubourgs. I shall 
die of this great sorrow ! ” added Madame Rougon, 
abruptly returning to her subject. 

Frouche rocked himself to and fro on his heels. 

“ Monsieur Mouret is mad ! ” he said, abruptly. 

The word fell like a thunderbolt — every one turned and 
looked at him. 

“His mind is affected,” continued Frouche. “You 
have only to study his eyes. I tell you that I am by no 
means comfortable. There was a man at Besangon who 
adored his daughter, and yet he killed her one fine night, 
when he did not know what he was about.” 

“It has been coming on a long time,” murmured Rose. 

“But it is horrible!” said Madame Rougon. “You are 
right: his appearance struck me as very extraordinary the 
last time I saw him ! Ah ! my poor, dear child, confide 
in me. I can no longer sleep in peace, if you do not 
promise to confide to me the very first thing that happens. 
Mad men are shut up where they will do no harm to them- 
selves or others! ” 

She went away as she spoke. When Frouche was alone 
with the Abbe he laughed his little vile laugh and 
showed his black teeth. 

“The landlady owes me a good big candle for that! 
She can squirm on the floor now all by herself, just as 
much as she pleases!” 

The Priest, with a pallid face and downcast eyes, did 
not answer. He silently turned away and went to the 
arbor, at the foot of the garden, where he read his Breviary. 


278 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

A STRANGE APPARITION. 

O N Sundays Mouret put on a clean shirt and carefully 
brushed his coat, preparing for the walk which it 
had always been his custom to take on that day; on others, 
he now rarely left the house. 

On the Sunday of which we write, just as he was going 
out, he saw Rose standing on the corner, talking with 
Monsieur Rastoil’s cook. The two women ceased speak- 
ing as they saw him. They looked at him with such a 
singular expression that he wondered what there was 
amiss in his attire. He crossed the Square, and, on look- 
ing around, found them still in the same place. Rose was 
imitating the movements of a drunken man, while the 
other woman laughed aloud. 

“They are laughing at me,” thought Mouret, and he 
walked more slowly. He noticed that all the shopkeepers 
ran to their doors and looked after him. He nodded to 
the butcher, who, with his mouth wide open, forgot to re- 
turn his salute. The baker was so utterly startled by his 
“ good-morning ” that she ran away. The grocer and 
pastry-cook pointed him out to one another with extended 
finger and whispers. 

He heard behind him the words : 

“He walks steadily enough to-day. Yes; but he ought 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


279 


not to be allowed to go out alone. It ought to be forbid- 
den by law.'* 

Mouret was greatly troubled, although he was by no 
means certain that they were talking of him. He wished 
lie had put on a better coat, and, when he reached the 
Market Square, wondered if he had not best turn back, 
but decided to push boldly on. His appearance seemed 
to cause a very great sensation ; the women stood up on 
chairs, in order to see him better, while the men never 
removed their eyes from him. 

“Stop him!** said one man, jestingly. The cry ran 
round the Market, amid jeering laughter, and Mouret, 
whose curiosity was much excited, stopped, supposing that 
a thief had been detected. New cries and laughter, hisses 
and cat-calls were heard. 

“He is doing no harm; let him alone! ** 

“But I would not trust him. He gets up in the night 
to strangle people.** 

“ His eyes do not look right, and his attack may come 
on suddenly.** 

“It is a great pity! He was always so gentle and kind. 
I am going away! There are your three sous for your 
artichokes.** 

Mouret caught sight at this moment of Olympe. She 
had just bought some magnificent peaches, which she put 
into a little work-bag, which would not have disgraced 
any fine lady. She seemed to have been telling some 
moving story, for the gossips about her uttered stifled 
exclamations. 


280 THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 

“ Then,” she continued, “ he took her by the hair, and 
would have cut her with a razor that lay on the dressing- 
table, had we not reached the spot just in season. Hush! 
here he is.” 

“ What are you talking about?” said Mouret. 

Olympe said, soothingly : 

“ Don’t be angry, sir. Had you not better go back to 
the house?” 

Mouret turned away. As he did so, a loud hiss struck 
his ears : 

“ What on earth is the matter with all these people to- 
day? Can it be me they are hissing?” 

And he took off his hat, looked at it with the vague 
idea that something was out of order there, and walked on 
quite tranquillized. He reached the bench on the Cours 
de Sauvaire, where he usually sat with his friends. They 
were there, but did not greet him as he approached. They 
looked at him from head to foot. 

“Ah !” said one, “taking a little walk?” 

“ Yes,” answered Mouret. “ The weather is so fine that 
it tempted me out.” 

His old friend exchanged a look. It was cold, and the 
sky was overcast. 

“You are easy to please, certainly,” answered the Cap- 
tain, “but then you have on an overcoat.” 

Mouret, struck by a sudden thought, turned his back 
quickly, saying : 

“Tell me, is there anything on my back? Has any 
one drawn a sun there?” 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


281 


“ No, indeed,” was the reply. “ I see nothing but a 
moon ! ” 

This was supposed to be a great joke and amazingly witty. 

“ Please rub it out,” said Mouret, “ it has been exces- 
sively annoying to me ! ” 

The Captain gave him two or three taps between the 
shoulders, saying : 

“ There, now, you are all right. But you do not look 
well?” 

“ No, I am far from well,” Mouret answered, in a low 
voice. He heard a smothered laugh. 

“ But I am taken such good care of at home that I shall 
soon be better. I am not strong and am obliged to keep 
very quiet, which is the reason I go out so rarely now-a- 
days.” 

“ Bless my soul, man,” said the eldest of the group, 
“ we heard it was your wife who was ill — ” 

“ My wife ! Oh, she is perfectly well ; there is nothing 
the matter with her. No, indeed ! she is perfectly well, 
except atrocious headaches.” 

And he went on, uttering disconnected phrases with 
the shifting eyes of a man who knows himself to be telling 
a falsehood. 

The others looked at him from head to foot, and one 
suddenly discovered that Mouret’s shoe-string was untied ; 
he touched the man next him, and soon all eyes were fixed 
on the shoe-string, and one after another of these gentle^ 
men shrugged his shoulders, as if this settled the question 
and that there was not the smallest shadow of hope left. 


282 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


u Mou ret,” said the Captain, “ you had better tie your 
shoe-string.” 

Mouret looked down, but he did not seem to understand, 
and stood for a moment in embarrassed silence, but then 
turned away and continued his walk. 

“ Well ! well !” said his friends, looking after him, “ he 
is a strange person.” 

Mouret passed the Club and there heard the same stifled 
laughter which had followed him ever since he had ap- 
peared in the street. 

He saw young Rastoil draw the attention of a group to 
him. Yes, they were laughing at him. He felt a strange 
terror take possession of him, and he slunk along close to 
the houses. As he turned a corner, he heard some chil- 
dren giggling behind him. He turned his head and saw 
three boys, two quite large and the other much smaller, 
with a decayed orange in his hand which he had picked 
out of the gutter. 

The boys persistently followed him. 

Mouret, out of all patience, called out : 

a Do you wish me to slap your faces?” 

The boys crowded about him, dancing and shouting like 
demons. Mouret, feeling that he was making himself 
ridiculous, tried to resume his walk. He dreaded crossing 
the Square and going under the Rougon windows with this 
little crowd of imps, now largely increased, at his heels. 
As he went on he suddenly saw Madame de Condamin and 
his mother-in-law coming toward him, and heard the 
latter say : 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


283 


“ We shall not bear this much longer, you may be sure. 
It is a disgrace.” 

Then Mouret began to run at the top of his speed, fol- 
lowed by these ten or twelve little imps. It seemed to 
him that all Plassans — the women at the market, the shop- 
keepers, the young men from the club, the Rougons, and 
all the people he knew were in hot pursuit of him. 

“ Catch him ! ” cried the children. 

Mouret made a desperate leap over a gutter, his foot 
slipped, and he fell. The children shouted with triumph, 
while the youngest walked forward with the greatest gravity 
and threw the rotten orange full in his face. Pie slowly and 
with great difficulty tried to rise, and at last succeeded in 
reaching his home, only a few steps distant. 

Rose was obliged to take a broom to chase away the 
troublesome children. 

From this Sunday all Plassans was convinced that 
Mouret was absolutely insane. The most preposterous 
tales were told. They said he spent all his time locked 
into a room which contained not even a chair or a table, 
and which had not been swept for a year. What did he 
do in this room ? On this point there was much differ- 
ence of opinion. The servant said that he pretended to be 
dead ; at market it was firmly believed that he had a coffin 
in that room, in which it pleased him to lie all day with 
his hands folded on his breast. 

“ We have seen this coming on for some time,” said 
Olympe, wherever she went. u He kept himself aloof 
from us all ; went apart in corners like a sick animal. I 
18 


284 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


noticed his strange ways the first day that I entered the 
house, and I spoke of it to my husband. His eyes were 
wild and suffused. He counted the lumps of sugar and 
locked up the bread, and was so frightfully stingy that 
his wife absolutely and truly, had not a shoe to her foot ! 
Poor woman ! I pity her from my whole heart. Imagine 
what her life must be with this maniac! He throws 
down his napkin in the middle of dinner, and goes off like 
a madman ; and he makes the most frightful scenes about a 
pot of mustard that is mislaid. But now he is quiet 
enough, except in the middle of the night, and then he 
leaps at the throats of people. I, myself, have seen some 
most extraordinary things, and could tell some strange 
stories if I chose.” 

Of course at this she was eagerly urged to unseal her 
lips; but she said no, it was none of her business; her 
poor friend would not like it. She was a dear, sweet 
woman, and her wishes should be respected. 

“ But,” Olympe added, “ there is one thing I will tell 
you ! He tried to cut her throat with a razor ! ” 

This strange story was told with such persistency that 
most people began to believe it, and for a month the rumor 
gradually gained ground. In La Rue Balande, notwith- 
standing all Olympe’s tragic tale, all things were quiet. 
Marthe was terribly depressed at times; at others, 
excessively nervous. Her friends, without explaining 
themselves very clearly, bade her be very prudent. 

Madame Rougon came every day. She entered the 
house with a hasty step and an expression of absolute 
anguish. 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 285 

“How is she?” Felicity would ask of Rose; and then 
when she saw her daughter, she embraced her as if she 
were torn from the jaws of death. When Marthe told 
her calmly that she herself felt no apprehension, Felicite 
looked at her with absolute wonder, exclaiming : 

“ You are an angel, and I honestly believe would allow 
yourself to be killed without a word. But I, my child, 
will watch over you. I have taken certain precautions, 
and if the day comes, that your husband lifts his hand to 
you, woe betide him ! ” 

She said no more then, but the truth was that she had 
visited all the city officials ; she had told all her daughter’s 
woes to the Mayor and Prefect in a confidential way, 
swearing them to everlasting secresy. 

“ It is a despairing mother who appeals to you, gentle- 
men,” she said, with tears in her eyes. “ The dignity and 
the honor of my poor child is in your hands. If a public 
scandal takes place, it will be too much for my husband, 
and yet I am in constant dread of some fatal catastrophe. 
Tell me what I ought to do.” 

These gentlemen were quite charming. They promised 
to take every care of Madame Mouret without seeming to 
do so. They would hold themselves a little aloof, ready 
to act at the first signal. She begged particularly that 
her daughter’s two neighbors — Monsieur Rastoil and the 
Perfect — should interfere at once, if any misfortune occur. 

This story of a madman with so much method in his 
madness that he waited until midnight for his paroxysms 
to come on, excited great interest in the two rival circles 


286 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


on either side of the Mouret mansion. Never were the 
reunions in the gardens more crowded. Every one was 
especially eager to greet the Abb6 Faujas, who made his 
appearance about four o’clock. At first no allusion was 
made to the dread secret of the house, but one day 
Monsieur Maffre looked up and said abruptly, glancing 
at the windows : 

“ That is the room, is it not ? ” 

This question broke the ice, and from this moment there 
was little talk of anything but the Moure ts. The Abbe 
declined to say more, than that it was very sad, and he 
pitied them all. 

“ But you, Doctor,” asked Madame de Condamin of Dr. 
Porquier, “ you are the family physician, I believe ; what 
do you think of it ? ” 

“ It is difficult to say,” he replied, with some hesita- 
tion. “ Madame Mouret is far from well. As to her 
husband — ” 

“ I have just seen Madame Rougon,” interrupted the 
Prefect ; “ she is very anxious.” 

“ Her son-in-law has always been obnoxious to her,” 
interrupted Monsieur de Condamin. “ I met Mouret the 
other day at the club. He was exactly the same as usual. 
He never was an eagle, you know ; but he is no more 
mad than I am.” 

“ I did not say he was mad — absolutely mad,” answered 
the Doctor, quietly ; “ but I do say that it is very unwise 
to leave him at liberty.” 

These words produced a certain emotion. 


THE CONQUEST OF PEASSANS. 


287 


“I once knew/’ continued the Doctor, “a most charm- 
ing person, who lived in great style, received the best 
people, and was herself a brilliant conversationalist. Well, 
as soon as this lady entered her room, she locked the door 
and spent the greater part of the night going round on all- 
fours and barking like a dog. For a long time her ser- 
vants thought she had a dog with her at night. This 
lady offered an example of what we physicians call lucid 
madness.” 

The Abbe Surin laughed, and glanced at the young 
ladies when he heard this lively story ; but Dr. Porquier 
did not smile. 

“ I could tell you twenty anecdotes,” he said, “ of peo- 
ple who seemed to be in full possession of their senses, and 
yet who commit the most surprising extravagances when 
they believe themselves to be alone.” 

“I had a penitent,” said the Abbe Bourette, “who had 
a great passion for killing flies ; she could not allow one 
to escape. But when she came to Confession, she shed 
bitter tears, accusing herself of cruelty, and declaring that 
the flies had souls which she had sent to perdition.” 

“It is not so bad when they confine themselves to 
killing flies ! ” said the Doctor; “but lucid maniacs are not 
often so innocent as this. They torture their families by 
some hidden vice; they drink and indulge in secret de- 
bauches; they steal and they do all sorts of imaginable 
things — all the time executing some quiet plot and talking 
reasonably, so that no one suspects the cerebral lesion ; but 
as soon as they are alone with those whom they have 


288 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


selected as their victims, they suddenly throw off the mask. 
If they do not literally murder, they kill by slow degrees. 
Monsieur Mouret has always been jealous, fretful and 
exacting,” he continued. “Age seems to have aggravated 
the lesion, so that now I have no hesitation — no, not 
the smallest hesitation — in pronouncing him dangerous.” 
“But, my dear Doctor, if this be your opinion, you 
should lose no time in reporting the case to the authorities.” 
Dr. Porquier looked somewhat embarrassed. 

“You may be sure,” he replied, with the gentle smile 
befitting the favorite physician of the ladies, “you may be 
quite sure that when the hour comes I shall do my duty. ?; 

“ I am inclined to believe,” said Monsieur de Condamin, 
maliciously, “that the maddest persons are not those 
whom we consider such. I doubt if there be a healthy 
brain among us ! ” 

The Abbe had listened with evident curiosity to this 
conversation, though he had not taken part in it. He 
now said, gently, that he thought the ladies found this 
subject depressing, and that they had best talk of other 
things. But the curiosity of these two sets of people had 
been so strongly excited that they had eyes and ears for 
nothing apart from this Mouret family. Every one but 
Monsieur de Condamin insisted that Mouret was mad. 
Condamin defended him with some warmth. 

The fair Octavie said to him one day : 

“What is it to you whether this man be mad or not?” 
“To me?” he answered, in great amazement. “Abso- 
lutely nothing, my dear.” 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


289 


“Then let him be called mad, if everybody chooses. 
Why do you never agree with your wife, my dear? Have 
the brilliancy not to be clever at Plassans ! ” 

De Condamin smiled. 

“ You are, as usual, quite right,” he said, gallantly 
bowing over her hand. “I am going to Saint-Eutrope on 
horseback. Do not wait dinner for me.” 

He departed with a cigar between his teeth. 

Madame de Condamin was quite aware who it was that 
he was going to see. But she was very tolerant, while he 
had no doubts in regard to her. There was no man at 
Plassans whom he feared. 

“Have you any idea,” Condamin said the next day to 
the Prefect, “of the amusement which this Mouret has 
discovered for himself, and in which he spends so much 
time ? He is counting every S in the Bible. Pie thinks 
he has made a mistake and has gone over it three times. 
Oh ! the man is as mad as a March hare ! ” 

From this time de Condamin amused himself in invent- 
ing the most preposterous tales in regard to Mouret, which 
were repeated by the servants all through the town. He 
declared he had seen him at a window wearing a woman’s 
cap, and bowing fantastically to the right and the left. 
Another time, he said, he saw him dancing in a nude 
condition on the outskirts of the forests ; and, as he said 
these things with utter gravity, people did not know 
whether they should believe them or not. He in his turn 
was considerably astonished when Mademoiselle A u relie 
Itastoil confided that the night before, she had seen their 


290 THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 

neighbor about midnight, walking in his garden with a 
huge candle in his hand. 

“ He then knelt down on the ground,” she said. “ He 
dragged himself along on his knees.” 

“ Perhaps he has committed some awful crime, and 
buried the body in the garden,” said her mother, with pale 
lips. 

Then the rival circles each determined to institute a 
watch, which they did for several nights, but no Mouret 
appeared. The fourth night the Prefect proposed to the 
Rastoil family that they should all join forces on his ter- 
race, and thus it was that Legitimacy for the first time 
entered the domicile of a Bonapartist. 

Monsieur Rastoil and his daughters found Dr. Porquier 
there, as well as Madame de Condamin and her husband. 
They leaned in silence over the railing. Suddenly they all 
held their breaths. Mouret was seen on his steps, with a 
lighted candle in a huge kitchen candlestick. 

“You see!” whispered Aurelie, “I told you he had a 
candle! ” 

No one ventured to deny this; the fact was incontestable. 
Mouret did have a candle; with it in his hands he delib- 
erately walked down the garden path and stood motionless 
before a lettuce-bed. He held his light up here — his 
sallow face was distinctly seen. 

“Good Heavens!” cried Madame de Condamin, “I 
shall certainly dream of him! Is he not walking in his 
sleep, Doctor?” 

“No, he is not a somnambulist; you can see that by 
his eyes.” 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


291 


Mouret now knelt in the centre of his salad-bed. He 
set down his candle, and seemed to be looking for some- 
thing. Every few seconds he appeared to bury something 
in the earth. 

"It is frightful!” gasped Madame de Condamin. “Let 
us go in.” 

Mouret heard a slight cry of terror uttered by Made- 
moiselle Rastoil, and hastily blew out his candle. They 
all heard him stumble up the steps, and held their breath 
to listen. Monsieur insisted on every one now going into 
the salon, and taking a cup of tea and a biscuit. Madame 
de Condamin sank into the corner of a couch, declaring 
that she had never been so much impressed — not even 
on the day when she was so moved by curiosity, that she 
attended an execution. 

“I believe,” said Monsieur Rastoil, quietly, “that 
Mouret was merely looking for slugs on the lettuces. It 
is said that it is better to kill them at night.” 

“Slugs!” cried Monsieur de Condamin. “Much he 
cares about slugs! Do people hunt slugs with a lighted 
candle? Tell me, did ever any one die mysteriously at 
the Mourets’ ? Really, an inquiry should be made.” 

The Prefect felt that this was going too far. He drank 
his tea, and then answered: 

“My dear fellow, the man is mad — that is all there is 
about it! ” 

And he handed the plate of biscuits to the young ladies; 
then, putting down the plate, he added : 

“And to think that this unfortunate creature has busied 


292 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


himself with politics! You must admit, my dear Itas- 
toil, that the Marquis de Laugrifort has a very strange 
partisan.” 

Monsieur Rastoil had become very grave. He made a 
vague gesture, while the fair Octavie hastily interposed : 

“ It is very likely,” she said, “ that politics have turned 
the poor man’s brain. I am told that he has been very 
busy over the elections. Is not that so, my dear ? ” 

She addressed her husband, at the same time giving him 
a meaning glance. 

“ To be sure,” answered de Condamin. “He says 
everywhere that he controls the votes, and can elect a 
shoemaker, if he chooses.” 

“ But that is preposterous ! ” said the Doctor ; “ for he 
has no longer a shadow of influence — in fact, the whole 
town is laughing at him.” 

“ You are very much mistaken ; he can carry with him 
the entire old Quartier and several of the villages. He is 
crazy, to be sure, but that is rather a recommendation than 
otherwise. I think him quite sensible — for a Republican, 
that is ! ” 

This very poor jest had an immense success, and Madame 
de Condamin, as she threw a shawl over her shoulders, 
said, gayly : 

“Well, at all events, we can’t allow the elections to be 
controlled by a man who kneels in the centre of his salad- 
beds every night.” 

The story was soon afloat in the town that the madman 
who beat his wife, walked the streets wrapped in a sheet, 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


293 


and everybody looked to see what he was doing or trying 
to do with politics. 

The Abbe Faujas did not interfere now with any dis- 
cussions on politics which took place in his presence. He 
even joined in them. Occasionally Mouret’s name would 
come up, and then Monsieur de Condamin would invariably 
murmur : 

“ If that man is not shut up before the elections, we 
shall see queer things!” 

Every morning Frouche brought strange reports to the 
Abbe. The workmen in the old Quartier, he said, had 
much to say about Mouret; they talked of calling on him 
for his advice and opinion. The Priest generally shrugged 
his shoulders and turned away. But one day Frouche 
left him with a radiant face ; he went at once to Olympe, 
saying: 

“This time, my dear, we have done it!” 

“He gives you permission to act, then?” 

“Yes — entire liberty — and we shall be very much better 
off when it is all settled.” 

Olympe was lying in bed. She started up and clapped 
her hands like a child. 

“Everything then will belong to us!” she cried. “I 
shall have another room — the cooking will be done down- 
stairs — and now we shall really begin to live!” 

That evening Frouche lounged into the Cafe, where he 
generally met Guillaume Porquier and several others of 
the dissipated scamps of the town. Frouche was unusually 
grave and quiet, and as he lighted his pipe, he said to 
Guillaume: 


294 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


“I saw your father to-night. I needed a certain paper, 
which he was kind enough to give me; but he objected at 
first. I told him that it was all right, and I got it.” 
Guillaume looked at him curiously. 

“I am telling the truth, ” hiccoughed Frouche, who had 
been drinking. “The paper is in my pocket/’ 

As he spoke, he drew out a huge envelope, and looked 
at the young man while he read aloud a declaration, at 
length, of the mental condition of one Francis Mouret. 
“You mean to shut him up, then?” asked Guillaume. 
“Never you mind, my boy!” answered Frouche, sud- 
denly becoming distrustful. “That paper is for his wife. 
I am only a friend who desires to serve her. We can’t let 
him murder the poor little woman, you know!” 

He was so tipsy by the time the Cafe closed {hat Guil- 
laume and several others went home with him. When he 
reached his door, he sobbed, as he said : 

“ I have no friends now-a-days, because I am poor, but 
you are a good boy, and shall come and take coffee with 
us when we are masters here. If the Abbe troubles us, 
we will send him packing after the others. Mouret is 
shut up, and we will drink his health.” 

The next night Marthe had a terrible attack. That 
morning she had been present at a long religious cere- 
mony. When Rose and the others ran at the piercing 
shrieks she uttered, they found her lying on the floor with 
her forehead cut open. Mouret was kneeling on the bed 
with his teeth chattering. 

“ This time he has certainly killed her ! ” cried the cook, 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


295 


who immediately pulled her shivering master from the 
bed, and hustled him into his office on the opposite side of 
the corridor. 

She threw in a mattress and a blanket, and then locked 
the door. Frouche ran for Dr. Porquier, who, as he 
dressed the wound, said, that had it been an eighth of an 
inch lower, it would have been mortal. Later in the 
salon the Doctor said in the presence of them all that he 
would consent to no further delay — Madame Mouret’s 
life should not be in this continual jeopardy — she should 
not be at the mercy of a madman, whose fury might burst 
out at any moment. 

Marthe, the next day, was at times slightly delirious, 
and raved of a hand and a flaming sword. Rose abso- 
lutely refused to permit Mouret to cross the threshold of 
his wife’s room. She carried him some breakfast, but he 
did not eat. 

He sat, looking stupidly at his plate, when the cook 
showed in three men in black. 

“Ah ! you are the doctors? How is she?” he asked. 

“ Better,” said one of the strangers. 

Mouret cut some bread as if he were going to eat it. 

“ I wish the children were here,” he said ; “ they would 
take care of her, and we should be less alone. It is only 
since the children went away that she has been sick ; and 
I am far from well too.” 

He sat with a mouthful on his fork, and big tears 
rolling down his cheek. The one of the three men who 
had before spoken said : 


296 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


“ Suppose we go for the children now?” 

“All right!” cried Mouret, pushing back his chair. 
“ Let us go at once.” 

The poor man did not see Frouche and his wife, leaning 
over the railing on the floor above, watching him with 
fierce and eager eyes. When the carriage, which had been 
standing before the door, drove away with Mouret in it, 
she seized Frouche by the shoulders, and wheeled him 
round and round in an ecstasy of* joy. 

“He is jugged!” she cried. 

Marthe was a week in her room. Her mother came 
daily to see her, and lavished on her the most extraordi- 
nary tenderness. Madame de Condamin called on her 
several times. But not a word was said about Mouret. 
Bose told her mistress that he had gone to Marseilles. 

When Marthe, however, took her seat at her dinner 
table for the first time, she asked with some anxiety for 
her husband. 

“Don’t be worried, dear lady,” said Madame Faujas. 
“ It was necessary to do something, and your friends took 
it into their own hands.” 

“ You have nothing to regret,” cried Bose, roughly. 
“ The whole Quartier breathes more freely now that he 
is gone. Everybody lived in deadly fear lest he should 
set the house on fire. I hid all my knives. Every single 
one of these ladies and gentlemen, who have come to see 
you since you have been sick, said to me that it was a 
good thing for Plassans. A whole town is stirred up 
when a man like that comes and goes as he chooses.” 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


297 


Marthe listened to this flow of words with eyes staring 
from out her pale face. She looked out into the garden, 
way beyond the fruit trees, as if she saw some terrific sight. 
“ Tulettes ! ” she stammered. “ Tulettes ! ” 

She fell back and stiffened as she always did in the 
beginning of her convulsions. The Abbe hastily rose 
from his chair, took both her hands in his, and pressing 
them firmly, said, in his rich, persuasive voice: 

“Be strong under this trial which God sends to you. 
He will grant you consolation, if you submit to this 
chastening.” 

Under the firm clasp of the Priest’s hands, and at the 
tender inflection of his voice, Marthe’s pale cheeks flushed, 
and she was as one risen from the dead. 

“Yes,” she sobbed, “I need consolation sorely. Send 
me consolation ! ” 


298 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE ELECTIONS. 

T HE General Elections took place in October. About 
the middle of September, the Bishop left for Paris, 
after having had a long conversation with the Abbe Fau- 
jas. It was said that Monseigneur had heard of the 
serious illness of a sister who lived at Versailles. He was 
back again at the end of five days. And buried in the 
depths of his arm-chair, and wrapped in a dressing-gown 
of quilted violet silk, although the weather was still warm, 
he was listening with a placid smile to the feminine voice 
of the young Abbe, who was scanning Anacteon. 

“ You give the music of this beautiful tongue to perfec- 
tion/’ said the Bishop; and then with a glance at the 
clock, he added : 

“Has not the Abbe Faujas been here this morning? 
Ah ! my child, my brain still whirls with the noise of that 
railroad. It rained all the time in Paris. I had people 
to see in every part of the city, and I will frankly say that 
I never saw so much mud in my life.” 

The Abbe Surin laid down his book. 

“ But, Monseigneur,” he said, with the familiarity of a 
spoiled child, “ is satisfied with the results of his journey ?” 
“ I know what I wanted to know,” answered the Pre- 
late, with a faint, shrewd smile. “ I ought to have taken you. 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


299 


There are a good many things with which you, destined by 
birth and nature to a mitre, ought to become habituated.” 
“Ah ! tell me, sir ? ” said the young Priest, in a 
supplicating tone. 

“ No ! no ! There are some things which should never 
be put into words. I will only say now, cultivate the 
Abbe Faujas ; he may one day be very useful to you. I 
know all about him now.” 

The Abbe had such an entreating expression on his 
childish face, that the Bishop continued : 

“ He had difficulties at Besangon. He was at Paris in 
a state of the most absolute poverty. The ministry at 

that time was in search of Priests devoted to the Govern- 

• T -. 

ment. I understand that Faujas at first absolutely 
terrified them with his sullen face and ragged soutane. 
By the merest chance he was sent here.” 

The Bishop was carefully weighing every word he 
uttered, afraid of saying too much. But, carried away by 
the real love he felt for his Secretary, he added more 
earnestly : 

“By all means, my child, make yourself useful to 
the Cure of Saint-Saturnin. He is a man who will 
forget neither a wrong nor a kindness. But do not 
become intimate with him. He will end badly. This, 
of course, is only my impression.” 

“He will end badly?” repeated the young Abbe, 
greatly surprised. 

“Oh, just now lie is on the topmost wave. But his 
face troubles me, child ! That man will not die in his bed. 
19 


300 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


But forget what I have said. Do not commit me in any 
way, for all I ask now in this world is peace and rest.” 

Little Surin took up his book, and at this moment the 
Abb6 Faujas was announced. The Bishop, with extended 
hands, advanced cordially to meet him, and called him 
“ My dear Cure.” 

“ Leave us, my child,” he said to his Secretary, who at 
once withdrew. 

The Prelate spoke of his journey and of his sister, who 
was better. He had seen several old friends. 

“And the Minister?” interrupted Faujas, looking 
fixedly at him. 

“ Yes, I felt obliged to call upon him,” answered the 
Bishop, with a faint color rising on his withered cheek. 
“He said much of you.” 

“ Then you no longer doubt me ? You are willing to 
trust me ? ” 

“Absolutely, my dear Cure. Besides I have no 
interest in politics. I leave you master of the field there.” 

They talked all the morning together. The Abb6 
extorted from Monseigneur a promise that he would 
make a circuit of his diocese, and that he should 
accompany him. The clergy would receive their instruc- 
tions in advance ; but the most delicate and troublesome 
task was in Plassans itself — in the Quartier Saint-Marc. 
The noblesse shut themselves into their hotels, and had 
been, so to speak, beyond the reach of the Priest. He 
could only influence the ambitious Royalists, like Rastoil, 
Maffre and Bourden. The Bishop promised to sound 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


301 


certain salons, where he himself was an habitue, and also 
to hint that if the noblesse voted badly, they would be in 
a most ridiculous minority, as the Bourgeoisie would 
certainly leave them in the lurch. 

“ But,” said Monseigneur, “ it would be well for me to 
know the name of your candidate.” 

The Abbe smiled. 

“A name is a dangerous thing, ” he replied. “In a 
week there would not be a shred of our man left, if we 
were to mention him to-day. The Marquis de Langrifort 
is impossible, so is Monsieur de Bourden. They can 
destroy each other, and we will not interfere until the last 
moment. Say merely that a candidate selected simply for 
political reasons would be a huge mistake — that it is 
expedient in the interest of Plassans to choose a man who 
has a reputation independent of party. Give them to 
understand that this man is found, but go no further.” 

The Bishop smiled, and detained the Priest as he was 
taking leave. 

“And the Abb6 Fenil ? ” he said. “Are you not afraid 
of his interfering with your projects?” 

The Priest shrugged his shoulders. 

“ He has not lifted his finger,” he said. 

“I know that,” replied the Prelate; “and this very 
tranquillity makes me uneasy. I know Fenil thoroughly; 
he is the most vindictive Priest in my diocese. It is pos- 
sible that he has abandoned the intention of struggling 
with you in this political field, but be sure that he will 
avenge himself in another way. Pie is watching you from 
the depths of his lair.” 


302 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


“ Pshaw !” said Faujas, showing his strong white teeth, 
“ he will not eat me alive, I fancy ! ” 

The Abbe Surin had come in at that moment, and heard 
these words. When the Cure of Saint-Saturnin had gone, 
he afforded Monseigneur infinite amusement by saying: 

“I wish they would devour each other like the two foxes 
who left nothing but their two tails ! ” 

Plassans, as the time for the elections drew near, was in 
a state of feverish excitement. A cry of defiance seemed 
to ring through the quiet streets, uttered by invisible lips. 
The Marquis de Langrifort, whose usual residence was a 
little without the city limits, had been residing for a couple 
of weeks with his relative, the Comte Valqueyras, in the 
Quartier Saint-Marc. There he contrived to see in his 
daily promenades all the people of influence without 
seeming to seek them. He was, nevertheless, very much 
out of favor with the people, who muttered complaints that 
if they had had any other representative, they would have 
had a railroad long since to Nice; also that when one of 
them had gone to see the Marquis in Paris, he was not 
received. In spite of all this grumbling, however, no 
other candidate had been put in the field. The truth was, 
that some unknown influence had deranged the chances of 
all possible candidates by making the alliance between the 
Legitimists and the Republicans, resulting in general 
perplexity and confusion and annoyance. 

The Republicans determined, in all this disturbance, 
upon their candidate. They chose a certain Maurin, a hat 
manufacturer, who was a great favorite among the working 
classes. 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


303 


Frouche, we must here say, gave himself out as an ardent 
Republican, and was one of the first to circulate the 
ominous reports in regard to the Marquis de Langrifort, 
and counselled a rupture with the Legitimists. But the 
point on which Frouche most prided himself was, that he 
accused the Prefect’s friends, in conjunction with those of 
Rastoil, of carrying Mouret off bodily, with the intention 
of depriving the Democratic party of one of its most 
honorable chiefs. The first time he uttered this extraor- 
dinary accusation was at a drinking-shop, and the people 
who heard him, looked at each other with a most singular 
expression. The gossips of the old Quartier grew quite 
tender-hearted over “the madman who beat his wife,” now 
that he was shut up, and began to talk about the Abbe 
Fauj as wishing to get rid of an inconvenient husband. 

Frouche, by dint of incessant repetition of his story and 
vehemently thumping the table, ended in inflicting on 
their credulity, a legend, in which Monsieur Pequeur des 
Saulaies played a most wonderful role. There was an 
absolute revulsion in Mouret’s favor, who was regarded as 
a political victim — a man whose influence was so much to 
be feared that he was placed in a cell at Tulettes. 

All this time the Abbe was to be seen constantly in the 
streets. He dressed with the greatest care, and an amiable 
smile was always on his lips, but an occasional flash from 
under his downcast lids, showed a smothered fire within. 

Often, at the close of the day, he entered his dreary- 
looking room, and with clinched fists panted for some 
Colossus to strangle. 


304 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


Old Madame Rougon, whom he continued to see in 
secret ; was his good genius. She kept him up to the mark; 
bade him remember that he must try and please people now. 
Later, when he had gained an ascendency in Plassans, he 
could strangle her or trample on her as he pleased. She 
said she had no tenderness for Plassans, where she had 
passed forty years of poverty, and which had looked at her, 
with jealous, curious glances, ever since the Coup d’Etat. 

“ It is I, my dear Abbe,” she said, with a smile, “ who 
should wear a soutane, for you are too much like a 
gendarme.” 

Never had the Cure been so assiduous in his attendance 
at the Young Men’s Club, nor so indulgent in his manner 
of listening to the youths as they prattled politics. His 
popularity was constantly on the increase. He even con- 
sented one evening to play billiards, in which game he 
evinced remarkable skill. After this the Club naturally 
accepted his advice on all subjects, and when he pleasantly 
advocated the admission of Guillaume Porquier, who had 
again renewed his application, his tolerance was much 
admired. 

“ I have seen the young man,” he said ; “ he made full 
confession, and I gave him absolution. He should not be 
treated as a leper, because he has taken down a few signs 
in Plassans and run in debt in Paris.” 

The Abbe, on leaving the Club, regularly went to the 
Institution of the Virgin. He generally arrived there 
during recreation. The children all rushed to meet him, 
and investigated his pockets, in which were always Holy 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


305 


images and medals. He was adored by the older girls, 
whom he tapped lightly on the cheeks, and bade be good. 
The Sisters sometimes complained to him of rebellious 
charges, and he lectured them in the chapel. Occasionally 
he called on the parents and spoke of their children. 
This Institution had brought him very near to the hearts 
of the poorer classes in Plassans. 

“These little rascals represent several hundred votes / 7 
thought Frouche, as he grimly contemplated the Abbe’s 
amiability. He had offered to talk to these girls himself, 
but the Priest did not like the expression of his eyes, and 
forbade his ever entering the court-yard. 

Frouche found himself therefore compelled to content 
himself with throwing sugar-plums to the girls, more 
especially into the apron of one, the daughter of a tanner, 
who, at thirteen, had the shoulders and bust of a woman. 

Later in the day the Abbe paid a succession of short 
visits to the Lady Patronesses of the Society, who received 
him with great cordiality. His great friend and ally, 
however, was Madame de Condamin, who always contrived 
to talk with him a little apart; her manner toward him 
was marked with sagacious little nods and knowing 
smiles, all indicating especial intimacy. As soon as the 
Priest appeared in her salon, she with a glance at her hus- 
band indicated that she wished to be alone with her guest, 
and Monsieur de Condamin at once retired, saying to any 
friend whom he happened to meet, that “ the Government 
was in session.” 

It was Madame Eougon who had recommended Madame 
de Condamin to the Priest. 


306 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


“ Under all her coquettish airs she conceals great clever- 
ness / 7 said Madame Rougon. “You can speak to her 
with the utmost frankness. You will find her extremely 
useful when you have places to distribute. She has re- 
tained a good friend in Paris who sends her a red ribbon 
whenever she asks for one . 77 

Madame Rougon thus held herself skilfully aloof, while 
the fair Octavie became the more active ally of the Abbe 
Faujas. She won over all her friends and the friends of 
her friends, and in short, exercised that wonderful feminine 
influence of which the Priest had recognized the impor- 
tance, and felt the necessity, from the moment he took his 
first steps in the narrow world of Plassans. It was she 
who closed the lips of the two Paloques — husband and 
wife. She threw a honeyed cake to these two monsters. 

“ You are a little bitter toward us, dear lady , 77 said 
Madame de Condamin one day to the wife of the Judge. 
“ You are very wrong, however. Your friends have not 
forgotten you. They are simply arranging a little surprise 
for you — 77 

“A little surprise! Probably a little trap ! 77 answered 
Madame Paloque, sharply. 

“ What should you say , 77 answered the fair Octavie, with 
a smile, “if your husband should be decorated ? 77 

The blood rushed to the face of her companion, who 
stammered : 

“You are jesting. A cabal has been formed against 
us long since. If you are imposing on me now, I will 
never forgive you so long as I live . 77 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


307 


Madame de Condamin vowed that she was speaking in 
good faith. The nomination was certain, only it would 
not appear in the Moniteur until after the elections, because 
the Government did not wish to have the air of buying 
the suffrages of the Magistrates. And she allowed it to 
be understood that the Abb6 Faujas had made an especial 
application for this well-deserved reward. 

“ Then my husband was right,” said Madame Faloque. 
“ He has urged my showing the Abb6 especial civilities 
for some time. Of course, I ask for nothing better than 
to live in peace with all the world.” 

The next day the Paloques were very humble, and the 
lady spoke with much bitterness of the Abbe Fenil. She 
even told that she had once heard him speak of driving 
from Plassans all that clique of Faujas’ ! 

“ If you wish,” she said to the Priest, “ I will give you 
a note written at the dictation of the Grand Vicar. It 
concerns you, as it is a collection of the malignant gossip 
in circulation in regard to you, which he was trying to have 
printed in the Gazette .” 

“But how comes it in your hands?” asked the Abbd. 

“ I have it, and that is enough,” she answered, not in 
the least disconcerted. 

“ I found it !” she added, with a smile. “And I remem- 
ber now that there are several corrections made in his own 
hand. But in giving it to you, I trust to your honor, for 
we must not be compromised.” 

She coquetted with this promise for several days, nor 
would she produce the paper until Madame de Condamin 


308 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


assured her that Monsieur Rastoil should be asked to 
resign, and that the Judge should have his position. - Then • 
she handed over the paper. The Abb6 Faujas would not 
keep it : he took it to Madame Rougon and begged her to 
take care of it, and use it — keeping herself in the back- 
ground — only in event of the Grand Vicar meddling with 
the elections. 

Madame de Condamin also whispered to Monsieur 
Maffre that the Emperor thought of decorating him, and 
promised Dr. Porquier that a place should be found for 
his son. 

The summer was drawing to a close, but Madame de 
Condamin came all the same in gay toilettes, and risking a 
cold, to sit in the Rastoil gardens and conquer the last 
prejudices of these people. But it was under the Mouret 
grape-arbor that the election was finally settled. 

“Well, gentlemen,” said the Abbe one day, with a smile, 

“ the great battle is near at hand.” 

Madame de Condamin glanced at Monsieur Pequeur des 
Saulaies, who bowed with his usual grace and said, quietly: 

66 1 shall remain within my tent. I, my dear sir, have 
been fortunate enough to convince His Excellency, that 
the Governor should keep in the back-ground. There 
will be no official candidate.” 

Monsieur de Bourden was pale with joy. 

“ There will be no official candidate ? ” said Monsieur 
Rastoil, considerably startled not only by the information, 
but by its having been withheld so long from him. 

“No,” answered the Prefect, “the town has enough 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


309 


honorable men to be trusted to make their own choice 
of a Representative.” And he bowed slightly in the 
direction of Monsieur de Bourden, who stammered : 

“No doubt! no doubt!” 

The Abbe led Monsieur Rastoil aside, and the two men 
talked together for some time. As they slowly returned 
to where the others were sitting, Rastoil said : 

“You are right: he is of no party, and I think would 
be acceptable to all. I am not partial to the Empire, but 
that is no reason why I should assist in sending to the 
Chamber, Deputies who will only annoy the Government. 
Plassans needs a thorough man of business, a citizen of 
her own to defend her interests.” 

“Your turn! Your turn!” cried Aurelie at this 
moment. 

The younger members of the party were amusing them- 
selves with the somewhat infantile game of “ Hunt the 
handkerchief.” 

The Abb6 Surin lifted a flower-pot, and found the hand- 
kerchief folded and placed under it. 

“Why did she not hide it in her mouth?” muttered 
Madame Paloque; “there is room enough there, and no . 
one would have gone there to look for it ! ” 

Her husband silenced her with a look; he would not 
tolerate a single sharp word just at this time. 

Monsieur de Condamin now spoke: 

“My dear sir,” he said to Monsieur de Bourden, “your 
success is certain, only be very cautious when you go 
to Paris. I know, from the best authority, that the 


310 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


Government has decided to adopt most strenuous means, 
should the Opposition prove annoying.” 

Monsieur Pequeur des Saulaies smiled as he caressed 
his moustache, and the conversation became general, while 
Monsieur de Bourden admired the exquisite tact with 
which his friends refrained from making* their congratu- 
lations more pointed. He enjoyed an hour of exquisite 
popularity. 

“It is surprising to see the rapidity with which grapes 
ripen in the sunshine,” said the Abbe Bourette, who had 
not moved from his chair, but sat with his eyes uplifted to 
the vines over his head. 

“At the North,” explained Dr. Porquier, “the grapes 
mature only when they are cut from the stems.” 

A discussion ensued on this point, which was broken by 
a repetition of the cry : 

“Your turn! Your turn!” Then followed shouts and 
peals of laughter, caused by the discovery that the Abbe 
Surin had rolled the handkerchief into a little ball, so 
artistically, that as it lay on the lawn, it looked like a 
small white stone. 

The intelligence that the Government had no intention 
of nominating a candidate ran through the town like wild- 
fire, and produced great excitement, and the logical result 
of disturbing all the different political combinations. 

The Marquis de Langrifort, Monsieur de Bourden, and 
the hatter Maurin, would have divided the votes into 
pretty nearly three equal parts; while no one could say 
which would carry the deciding votes. A rumor arose of 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


311 


a fourth candidate, whose name no one could give, who 
would perhaps consent to harmonize all parties The 
electors of Plassans, intimidated, now that they felt the 
bridle on their necks, asked for nothing better than to 
unite on some person who should be acceptable to all. 

“The Government is most unwise to treat us as if we 
were not to be trusted,” said the Cercle cle Commerce. “ If 
the Administration had been clever enough to select a 
suitable candidate, we should have been only too glad to 
vote for him. The sub-Prefect spoke of a lesson. Very 
well, we do not choose to accept a lesson. We will elect 
our own candidate, and show them that Plassans is a town 
of good sense, and claims liberty of action.” 

But the names which were brought forward only re- 
doubled the confusion. Plassans in one week had at least 
twenty candidates. 

Madame Rougon, in great anxiety, went to see the Abbe 
Faujas. She began to rave about this Pequeur — this sim- 
pleton, she said, who did very well in a salon, but was 
literally of no use elsewhere. 

“Do not be troubled!” answered the Priest, with a 
smile; “this time Pequeur has but to obey. The victory 
is certain ! ” 

“But where is your candidate?” she cried. 

Then he developed his plan, of which she approved, 
like the clever woman she was; but she could not conceal 
her surprise at the name he whispered. 

“Is it possible?” she said. “I assure you, no one ever 
dreamed of him!” 


312 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


“So I hope / 7 answered the Priest, smiling again. “ We 
need a candidate whose name has never been heard, and 
in the universal surprise he will be accepted by every one . 77 

Then, with the abandon of a man who condescends to 
explain his conduct, he went on : 

“I owe you infinite gratitude, dear Madame , 77 he said. 
“You have saved me from many errors. I looked only 
at the end, and saw no one of the slender threads woven 
in every direction. Thank Heaven ! all this child’s play 
is now ended, and I can move in freedom. As to my 
choice, you may be sure that it is a wise one. I have 
been on the look-out for the man I required, ever since I 
came to Plassans, and this is the one who answers our 
needs. He is manageable, capable and active. I am 
aware that he is not a fiivorite of yours, but, all the same, 
you will eventually admit my wisdom, for he will be very 
useful to us in Paris. He is literally the only man in 
Plassans who is not an imbecile . 77 

“And you present him to the Government ? 77 said 
Felicite, laughing. 

She allowed herself to be convinced, and the next day 
Delangre’s name was on every lip. His friends, it was 
said, had insisted on his accepting the nomination, which 
he for a long time refused, feeling his own inexperience 
too keenly, but had finally allowed himself to be per- 
suaded. It was understood that he should go to the 
Chamber of Deputies 1 — not to oppose nor even to sustain 
the Government, but simply to represent the interests of 
the town; he should vote for “Liberty in Order, and 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


313 


Order in Liberty.” These words had a certain ring to 
them that was quite taking, and at the Cercle de Commerce 
certain astute ones said “Delangre is our man; no one will 
accuse us now of childish incompetency, any more than of 
going down on our knees before the Government. If the 
Empire should receive a few lessons like this, affairs 
would go better.” 

This was a train of powder; the mine being ready, only 
one spark was needed. From the whole town rose 
one song of praise. Delangre was the long-looked-for 
Messiah. 

The Priests, one and all, breathed his name with words 
of praise, as did all the ladies connected with the Society 
of the Virgin. The Young Men’s Club was quite enthu- 
siastic in his favor. 

The Marquis de Langrifort, and then Monsieur de 
Bourden, were furious, shouted “ Treason,” and withdrew 
from the contest. The hatter, Maurin, alone was left in 
the field, and he would command fifteen hundred votes in 
the Faubourg, while Delangre could unite thirty-three 
thousand. The whole affair was managed with such con- 
summate tact and ability that Plassans, on the night before 
the election, was astonished at her own unanimity. 

That evening the Rastoil circle were taking tea in the 
salon of Monsieur Pequeur des Saulaies, having forsaken 
the garden. All the habitues were there. 

“ I have never opposed the Government,” said Monsieur 
Rastoil, as he drank his tea. “ I am ever willing to 
admit that the Empire has accomplished great things, and 


314 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


that it is destined to achieve greater, if it continues in 
the path of Justice and Liberty.” 

The sub-Prefect bowed as if these eulogies were 
addressed to him personally. Monsieur Rastoil had read 
in the Moniteur only an hour before that his son had been 
appointed to a long-coveted position at Faverolles. 

Monsieur Delangre did not come in until late, when he 
received an absolute ovation. Madame de Condamin had 

t 

just informed Dr. Porquier that his son had been made 
head clerk at the post-office, and distributed good news on 
all sides. Said that the Abbe Bourette would be the 
Grand Vicar the next year; assured little Surin that he 
would be a Bishop before he was forty. 

“Poor Bourden ! ” said Monsieur Rastoil. 

“Oh, you need not pity him,” she answered, gayly. 
“ The Chamber is not his place ; he wants a Prefecture. 
Tell him from me that he will have a Prefecture.” 

Every one was delighted. The fair Octavie won all 
hearts by her desire to please every one. She really did 
the honors at the Sub-Prefect’s. And it was she who, in 
apparent jest, gave the most practical advice to Monsieur 
Delangre, as to the stand he should take in the Corps 
Legislative. She took him aside and offered to introduce 
him to the most important personages, which offer he 
accepted with gratitude. 

About eleven o’clock Monsieur de Condamin spoke of 
illuminating the garden, but she calmed his enthusiasm, 
and told him it would never do ; that they would look 
as if they were mocking the town. 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


315 


“And the Abbe Fenil?”she said to Faujas, drawing 
him as she spoke into the embrasure of a window. 

“ What can he be doing? ” she added, anxiously. 

“The Abbe Fenil is a man of sense,” answered the 
Priest, with an ambiguous smile. “He has learned by 
this time, I fancy, that he had best not occupy himself 
with politics.” 

The Abbe Faujas amid this imprudent joy was very 
grave. Madame de Condamin and her incessant chatter 
wearied him inexpressibly, and he was filled with 
contempt at all this glow of vulgar satisfaction. He 
stood leaning against the chimney with his eyes cast 
down. He knew himself to be master; he knew that 
he had but to extend his hand, and take the town in 
his iron grasp. This tall black form towered above all 
the others in the salon. By degrees all the chairs were 
drawn toward him — the central figure. The men eagerly 
sought for a word of approbation from his lips; the 
women hung on his glances like submissive slaves. 

But he, abruptly breaking through the circle, was the 
first to depart, with a brief word of farewell. 

When he entered the Mouret mansion through the little 
door from the lane, and up the garden walk, he found 
Marthe alone in the dining-room, sitting leaning back in 
a chair with her eyes fixed on an expiring lamp. 

Above he heard Frouche singing a song of somewhat 
doubtful propriety, while Olympe and several guests kept 
time with their knives on their glasses. 

20 


316 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS, 


CHAPTER XX. 

FORESIGHT. 

T HE Abbg Faujas laid his hand on Marthe’s 
shoulder. 

“ What are you doing? ” he said. “I have forbidden 
you over and over again to wait up for me.” 

She started to her feet. 

“I supposed you would be in earlier/’ she said. “I 
was asleep. Rose has made some tea.” 

But the Priest called the cook, and scolded her for not 
having seen that her mistress had retired. He spoke to 
her in a tone of severe reproof, to which she dared not 
reply. 

“ Rose, bring in some tea to the Abbe.” 

“ I do not wish any tea,” he exclaimed, in great 
vexation. “I do wish you would go to bed at once. It is 
absolutely ridiculous. Rose, light me to the stairs.” 

As Rose held the light for him, she said : 

“It is not my fault, sir. Madame is so very strange! 
She is really very ill, and yet she will not stay in her 
room. She is always on the go, up-stairs and down- 
stairs, and I am really that tired at night, sir, following 
after her, that I can’t sleep. After she has wandered 
about in this way, she drops on a chair anywhere, and sits 
with her eyes fixed, and with the most frightened look in 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


317 


them, as if she saw something awful, way off somewhere. 
I have told her a dozen times that if you saw her when 
you came in, that you would be very angry, but she did 
not even seem to hear me.” 

The Priest went slowly up the stairs ; as he reached the 
Frouche quarters, he hesitated as if about to knock ; but 
the song had ceased, and he inferred from the moving of 
the chairs, that the guests were about departing. Frouche, 
in fact, went down with two tipsy companions ; ten 
minutes later Olympe leaned over the railing. 

“ You can bolt the door,” she said to Rose; “lie will 
not be in until day-break.” 

Rose, from whom she made no attempt to hide her hus- 
band’s misconduct, pitied her greatly, and condoled with 
her loudly. As she pushed the bolts, the cook said : 

“ Marry, indeed ! A man beats you or runs away from 
you. No, indeed ! I much prefer to remain as I am.” 

She went back to the dining-room, and beheld her mis- 
tress fallen into a stupor, with her sad eyes fixed on the 
lamp. She shook her gently, and insisted on her going 
up-stairs. Marthe had become very timid. She said she 
saw strange shadows on the walls of her room, and heard 
mysterious rappings. Rose, therefore, now slept in a small 
room next hers, where she could run and soothe her at the 
smallest cry. This especial night she was undressing, 
when she heard a strange sound. She rushed into the 
room, and found her mistress kneeling in the centre of the 
bed, with her hands pressed over her mouth to restrain 
her shrieks, and with her eyes distended in mute horror. 


318 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


Rose shook out the curtains, opened the wardrobe, and 
soothed her mistress as she would have soothed a fright- 
ened child — showing her that there was not a soul in 
the room. A scene like this terminated in a cataleptic 
attack, when she lay as if dead. 

“ It is my master she fears ! ” said the cook, as she laid 
Madame Mouret back in her bed. 

The next day was the regular day for Dr. Porquier’s 
visit. He came to see Marthe twice each week. His 
invariable words were : 

“ It is nothing, dear lady. You will be all right soon. 
You cough a little still? A neglected cold is apt to 
hang on.” 

She complained of intolerable pain in her back and 
chest, and as she spoke, she kept her eyes riveted on him, 
endeavoring to extort from his face, opinions which she 
knew he would not put into words. 

“ I am afraid of going mad ! ” she at last exclaimed, 
with bitter sobs. 

He reassured her with a smile. Rut she was none the 
less afraid. She did not like Dr. Porquier. She even 
went so far as to tell Rose not to admit him — that she did 
not need to see him so constantly. Rose shrugged her 
shoulders, and admitted him all the same. But by degrees 
he ceased to speak of her ailments, and his visits had the 
air of friendly calls. 

When he left on the day of which we write, he met the 
Abbe Faujas, who asked him how Madame Mouret was. 

“Science is often utterly powerless,” said the Doctor, 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 319 

gravely. “The poor lady is much shattered; but I do 
not condemn her absolutely. Her chest is not very much 
affected yet, and the climate is good here.” 

He then went off on the effect of the climate on dis- 
eases of the lungs. He had prepared a brochure on this 
subject, he said — not for publication, but for the perusal 
of his friends. 

The Priest listened with an absent air. 

“ You are wrong,” he said, at last. “ This climate does 
not agree with Madame Mouret. Why do you not send 
her to Nice?” 

“ To Nice ? ” repeated the Doctor, much astonished. 
He looked at the Priest for a moment, and then he said in 
his complaisant voice : 

“Nice would certainly be an excellent place for her. The 
state of excessive nervous excitement under which she 
now labors, might be much ameliorated by change of 
scene. I think I will suggest this change to her. It is 
really an excellent idea.” 

The next day at dinner, Marthe spoke of the Doctor 
in terms which were almost violent. 

“I will never see him again,” she said. “He came 
here to-day and advised me to travel.” 

“And I think his advice was most excellent,” answered 
the Abbe, folding his napkin as he spoke. 

She looked at him fixedly, and murmured in a low, 
faint voice, turning very pale as she spoke : 

“ Then you, too, would send me from Plassans ! I 
should die in a strange land — far from my home— far 
from those I love.” 


320 THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 

The Priest was standing ready to leave the room. He 
went toward her, and said with a smile : 

“Your friends ask only that you should recover your 
health. Why are you so obstinate?” 

“ I will not go ! I will not go ! ” she cried, drawing back 
hastily. 

The color flashed into the Abbe’s face at this contest. 
He folded his arms as if to resist a strong desire to beat 
her. 

She stood leaning against the wall in despair at her own 
feebleness. At last she extended her hands. 

“Oh! let me stay here,” she murmured. “I will obey 
your least word.” 

And as she burst into tears and sobs, he went away with 
the air of a husband who fears a scene. Madame Faujas, 
who was busy in the room, had witnessed the whole 
interview. She allowed Marthe to weep at her ease. 

“ You are entirely unreasonable, my dear child,” said 
the old woman, helping herself to some sweetmeats. “You 
will make Ovide detest you. Why do you refuse to take 
a journey, if it will do you good? We will take care of 
your house. You will find everything in its place when 
you return. You had better go.” 

Marthe sobbed, and gave no evidence of hearing what 
was said. 

“Ovide has so many cares,” continued the old lady. 
“Do you know that he often works until the middle of 
the night? When you cough, he hears you, and it wor- 
ries him so much, that all his ideas leave him, and he 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


321 


cannot think. Do this for Ovide, my child. Go away 
for a little, and come back to us, all well.” 

Marthe raised her face, over which the tears were 
streaming, and with an incoherent exclamation fled from 
the room. 

For several days there was no further talk of a journey 
to Nice, to which Madame Mouret would not bear the 
smallest allusion. She refused to leave Plassans with the 
energy of despair, and the Priest began to feel that there 
was danger in further persistence. She was now to him 
an ever increasing source of peril. As Frouche said, 
with unholy laughter : “ It was she who ought to have 
been sent first to Tulettes.” Ever since her husband’s 
departure, her performance of her religious duties had 
been most rigid, and her husband’s name never passed her 
lips. She spent nearly all her time in prayer. 

But she was as restless as ever, when she came in from 
church. 

“ Our landlady is in a most extraordinary state of mind,” 
said Olympe to her husband. “She says Ovide has no 
heart ; that he deceived her in promising her full consola- 
tion and peace, and she fairly blasphemes when she speaks 
of God. Ah ! for real impiety, commend me to what are 
called religious people.” 

Frouche listened with great interest. 

“If Faujas wasn’t a fool,” he answered, “he could soon 
make her as meek as a lamb. He will get into trouble 
there in spite of his caution. I see it all clearly. Listen : 
your brother is not so very sweet to us that we should 


322 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


take any trouble to help him. Do you see, my dear,” 
Frouche added, in a low voice, “if your brother and our 
landlady should chance to make a bolt of it, this house 
would be ours. There would be no one to interfere with 
us, and we should have feathered our nests comfortably.” 

These people had taken possession of the rez-de-chauss6e 
since Mouret’s departure. Olympe had complained at first 
that the chimneys smoked, and finally persuaded Marthe 
that the disused salon was really the most healthy room 
in the house. A huge fire was kept up, and the two 
women sat there with their work, all day long, in front of 
the flaming logs. One of Olympe’s dreams had been to 
live thus — attired in showy raiment and buried in the 
depths of an easy-chair. She induced Marthe to repaper 
the room, to buy furniture and a carpet. At last she was 
a lady, and went about in slippers, with the air of the 
mistress of the house. 

“This poor Madame Mouret,” she said, “has had so 
much trouble that she is quite broken down, and has 
begged me to help her, and I feel that I am doing a work 
of kindness.” 

She had, in fact, gained Marthe’s confidence to such a 
degree, that the keys were intrusted to her, and she paid 
all the bills. For a time she hesitated how she should in- 
stall herself in the dining-room, but Frouche dissuaded her 
from this. 

“We are much more at liberty,” he said, “at our own 
table, where we can eat and drink as we please, and invite 
a friend in beside, when we see fit.” 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


323 


But Olympe regularly confiscated a portion of the des- 
sert. She filled her pockets with sugar, and brought up 
the ends of candles. She went so far, and systematized 
matters to such a degree, that she even sewed great linen 
pockets under her skirts, which it took her a good fifteen 
minutes each evening to empty. 

“You see / 7 she said, as she closed the trunk in which 
she stored all this jumble, and pushed it under the bed, 
“it is just as well to be prepared for emergencies. If we 
should happen to quarrel with the lady down-stairs, there 
is enough to keep us going for several days. I must bring 
up some sweetmeats . 77 

“What is the use of your doing it ? 77 grumbled Frouche. 
“If I were you, I should tell Bose to trot up with 
them . 77 

Frouche was working his own sweet will in the garden. 
He had long watched Mouret as he hoed and dug, and 
wanted to do the same. No sooner, therefore, had the 
owner vanished from the scene, than he invaded the place 
with his projects of improvement. He began by uproot- 
ing all the vegetables, saying his tastes were more refined, 
and that he only cared for flowers. But he got tired in a 
day or two, and a gardener was sent for, who threw all the 
salad on the dung-heap, and prepared the soil to receive 
roses and lilacs, larkspurs and mignonette, pinks and 
geraniums. Then he took it into his head to destroy the 
box-borders, which, he said, were dismal, and looked like 
a cemetery. 

“You are quite right , 77 said Olympe. “I should very 
much prefer a rustic fence ! 77 


324 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


This was quickly done. Frouche cut down several 
fruit-trees which interfered with his view; painted the 
arbors light green, and did numerous other things. 

“The neighbors must open their eyes,” he said to his 
wife, “ for they must see that a man of genius rules here 
now.” 

Marthe did not interfere — in fact, no one consulted her. 
The Frouches had only Madame Faujas to contend with, 
and she disputed their progress step by step. 

“ Your sister wishes to supplant us with Madame Mou- 
ret,” said the old lady to her son, with considerable bitter- 
ness. “Just see how she has taken possession of the 
salon ! ” 

The Priest paid little attention to all this grumbling; 
but one day he lost all patience, and exclaimed: 

“Pray, mother, let me alone; I do not wish to hear one 
word of Olympe’s nor her husband’s doings.” 

“But they are pillaging the house, Ovide! When you 
want your share, all will be gone. You had best keep 
them quiet now.” 

He looked at his mother with a bitter smile. 

“Mother,” he said, “you love me and I forgive you. 
But you need not be disturbed — I want nothing in the 
house. It is not mine, and I only keep what I honestly 
earn. Frouche has been very useful to me. We had best 
close our eyes ! ” 

Madame Faujas was compelled, therefore, to yield her 
ground, which she did with a very bad grace. Her son’s 
absolute disinterestedness made her desperate, and offended 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


325 


all her economical instincts. She could not endure to 
watch the ravages made by Olympe and her husband; it 
seemed to her that they were wasting her own property, 
and reducing her and her favorite child to beggary. 
AVhen the Abbe forbade her to interfere with them, she 
determined at least to save from their clutches all she 
could ; she, too, had pockets in her skirts — she, too, had a 
huge box which she filled with all sorts of things. 

“What are you hiding there, mother ?” said the Abbe, 
suddenly entering her room one day, attracted by the noise 
she made in pulling out the box. 

She hesitated, but he understood at once, and gave way 
to the most frightful anger. 

“How disgraceful!” he exclaimed. “And you are a 
thief in your old age, are you? What would happen to 
you if you were discovered? I should be the talk of the 
town ! ” 

“It is for your sake, Ovide,” she answered. 

“Do you think,” he cried, “that I came here to steal, 
or to allow you to steal? What sort of an opinion have 
you of me? No, no; we must separate, if we cannot 
understand each other better.” 

These words crushed the old woman. She was kneel- 

v 

ing at the side of the box; she extended her trembling, 
withered hands, and, amid her dry and choking sobs, she 
said: 

“It is all for you, my child. They are taking every- 
thing; she is filling her pockets all the time, and there will 
not be even a lump of sugar left for you. But I will not 


326 


THE CONQUEST OP PLASSANS. 


take a single thing, if you do not like it; but you will not 
send me away ! Promise me that you will not send me 
away ! ” 

But the Abb6 refused to promise anything, until she 
had put back all she had taken. He himself presided 
for a whole week at the emptying of this box; he watched 
her refill her pockets again, but would not permit her, out 
of prudence, to make more than two trips of an evening. 
The old woman’s heart was half-broken at parting with 
these things, but she dared not open her lips nor shed a 
tear, while her hands trembled far more, than when she 
had helped herself from the closets. 

Her woe was redoubled when she discovered that 
Olympe came after her, and regularly took away just that 
which had been replaced. The linen and provisions, 
candle ends and soap, had simply changed pockets. 

“I will not carry back another thing!” she exclaimed, 
suddenly rebellious. “ It is useless when your sister 
takes it all away again. Perhaps you would like me to 
carry the box up to her room just as it stands! Ovide, 
pray let me keep the rest. It will not harm our landlady, 
since it is lost to her, anyway ! ” 

“My sister is as she was made,” answered the Priest, 
coldly; “but I wish my mother to be an honest woman.” 
She was compelled to return every iota of what she had 
taken, and from that time she hated Olympe and her 
husband, and even poor Marthe, and said to herself that 
the day was not far off, when she should be obliged to 
defend Ovide against all these people. 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


327 


The Frouche pair were now monarchs of all they sur- 
veyed. They penetrated every corner of this mansion, 
and carried off whatever they pleased. The A bbe’s room 
was the only spot they dared not invade. They invited 
their friends, and drank and rioted all night. Guillaume 
Porquier and his dissolute young companions were often 
there, and Olympe, notwithstanding her thirty-seven years, 
was only too happy to receive them. Her husband pre- 
tended sometimes to find fault with her conduct toward 
them ; but she tossed her head, saying : 

“Do you think you are the only one of us who has a 
right to find any amusement ? No, no ! You go your 
way, and let me go mine; I don’t interfere with you.” 

The truth was, that Frouche had gone a little too far at 
the Institution. One of the Nuns had found him alone 
with the tall, fair girl, on whom he had cast covetous eyes 
for a long time. And the girl confessed that she was not 
the only one. The Nun, knowing that Frouche was a 
relative of the Cure of Saint-Saturnin, was prudent 
enough to keep the tale to herself, and told no one but the 
Abbe, who thanked her and made her understand that 
Religion suffered when such tales got abroad. Not one 
of the Lady Patronesses heard of it; but the Abbe 
had a terrible explanation with his brother-in-law in the 
presence of Olympe, in order that the wife might have a 
certain control over her husband. 

About this time the worthy pair had another fight. 
Notwithstanding the easy life they led, and the fact that 
more than half of their daily living was filched from 


328 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


Marthe, they were overwhelmed with debt. Frouche 
wasted his salary at the Cafes, while Olympe spent all 
she could wring from Mar the, in the indulgence of the 
most foolish fancies. The bill which especially disturbed 
her was that of the pastry cook, amounting to over a 
hundred francs. This man was not a meek and gentle 
creditor; he threatened her with fierce oaths, and swore 
he would apply to the Abbe. The Frouche pair lived 
in terror; but when it was presented, the Abbe paid it 
without a word, and even forgot to reproach them. 
The Priest seemed to be above all these pettinesses. 
He continued to live stern and rigid in this house given 
over to pillage, without seeming to notice that fierce teeth 
gnawed at the walls, and the slow ruin that was settling 
down upon it. All was mouldering about him, while 
he went straight on to the aim his ambition had created. 
He encamped like a soldier in his bare and desolate room, 
vexed if any one attempted to add to his comforts in any 
way. Since he reigned over Plassans, he had become a 
backslider in the matter of costume; his hat was dingy 
and his hose far from fresh ; his soutane was like that 
worn in the days of his first appearance in the town. 

“ Nonsense! it is good enough l” he would say, whenever 
any one ventured to make any remark to him. 

And he walked the streets with his head held up loftily, 
and quite undisturbed by the glances he met. It was not 
a look of bravado which he wore : it was indifference. He 
no longer tried to please, inasmuch as he thought the 
necessity of doing so was no longer pressing. 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


329 


He felt, moreover, a sardonic pleasure in seating him- 
self in his worn and shabby raiment among the 6lite of 
the town. 

Madame de Condamin could bear it no longer, and she 
one day took him to task in a maternal sort of way. 

“Do you know that the ladies are not pleased with 
you ? ” she said. “You are growing so very careless about 
your dress. A while ago, if you took out your handker- 
chief, it was as if a whole crowd of choir boys swung their 
censers.” 

He seemed much astonished, insisted he had not changed; 
but she shook her head, and said in a friendly way : 

“You are wrong to neglect yourself in this way. You 
never shave. Your hair is uncombed, and looks perfectly 
wild. I assure you that you are trifling with your 
success — ” 

He shook his rough head, shrugged his broad shoulders, 
and laughed, as he said : 

“Well, the thing is done; they are bound hand and 
foot, and Plassans must take me as I am, combed or 
uncombed!” 

This was true — the supple, obsequious Priest now ap- 
peared in a new character, sombre and despotic, bending 
others to his will. His face was pale, with eagle eyes; his 
large hands were raised in chastisement and threats. The 
town was positively terror-stricken at seeing this master, 
whom they had so carelessly accepted, grow to such pro- 
portions. The women, whose Confessor he was, shivered 
when they went to him ; but they dared not leave him. 


330 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


“ My dear,” said Madame de Condamin to Marthe, “ I 
think on the whole I like him better, when he is not 
combed or brushed. He is all the more unlike other 
people ! ” 

At the Bishop’s residence, too, did the Abbe reign. 
Monseigneur lived among his books, and the Abbe ruled 
the Diocese in the next room, wherein he literally locked 
himself, refusing to see any one whom he had any reason 
to distrust. The clergy trembled before this peremptory 
ruler. Old white-haired Priests bowed with ecclesiastical 
humility. The venerable Bishop, alone with little Surin, 
confessed to a longing for the old days of Fenil’s rule, who 
had an occasional gentle mood ; while now he felt himself 
crushed under an implacable and continuous pressure. 
But he smiled and shrugged his shoulders, as he said : 

“Well, my child, let us to work. I ought not to 
complain; I have just the life for which I have always 
longed — books and solitude ! ” He sighed, and added : 

“ But I shall lose you, Surin, I know it. Before long 
he will make up his mind that you must go. I did not 
like the way he looked at you yesterday. I entreat you to 
bow low before him — never contradict him — have no other 
will than his ! ” 

Two months after the elections, the Abbe Vial, one of 
Monseigneur’s Grand Vicars, was sent to Borne. His 
vacant position, though long since promised to the Abbe 
Bourette, was given by the Abbe Faujas, to a young, 
ambitious Priest — a creature of his own. 

When he met Bourette, he said, simply: 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


331 


“ Monseigneur would not hear your name.” 

And when the old Priest said he would see the Bishop, 

and ask for an explanation, Faujas added, more gently: 

“ Monseigneur is too ill to see you. You may rely on 

me. I will plead your cause.” 

From the time that he was a member of the Chamber, 

Monsieur Delangre had voted with the majority. Plassans 

was under the heel of the Empire. It seemed almost as 

• 

if the Abbe had determined to mortify these Bourgeois 
locking the door on the lane, and compelling these gentle- 
men to enter by the grand door on the Square. When 
he showed himself at their informal reunions, all were very 
obsequious, and such was the fascination — the absolute 
terror he inspired, that even when he was not there, no 
living soul ventured to utter the least word in his dispraise. 

“ He is a most wonderful man ! ” said Monsieur des 
Saulaies, who still looked forward to a full Prefectship. 

“An extraordinary person ! ” echoed Dr. Porquier, and 
the circle nodded approval. 

“ Did you know,” said Monsieur de Bourden, “ that he 
will soon be made a Bishop?” 

Monsieur Maffre hazarded the observation that Faujas 
would probably succeed Monseigneur, whose health was 
fast failing. 

“That would be satisfactory to every one,” said the 
Abbe Bourette, artlessly. “ Monseigneur’s temper is 
sharpened by his illness, and I know that our excellent 
Faujas has the greatest difficulty in destroying certain 
strange prejudices in his mind.” 

21 


332 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


When the Abbe Surin was there, he joined in all these 
praises, but he was none the less disquieted by the success 
of the Abbe Faujas. He looked at him with a puzzled 
air — was hurt by his abrupt rudeness, and, remembering 
the advice of the good old Bishop, took the greatest care 
not to cross this man’s path. 

The truth was, that most of these men would gladly 
have thrown off this iron rule if they had dared. They 
were weary of the incessant gratitude demanded by 
their master, and they longed for a hand which would 
deliver them. 

Naturally, therefore, they exchanged strange glances 
when Madame Paloque said carelessly one evening : 

“ And the Abbe Fenil, where is he? It is a century 
since I heard his name.” 

A profound silence followed this question. Monsieur 
de Condamin was the only one who ventured upon such 
burning ploughshares. 

“ Fenil ! ” he said, slowly. “ Oh, he is at his little 
country place, near Tulettes.” 

And his wife added, sarcastically : 

“ May he rest in peace ! And we, too, can rest, for he 
is done with, and will never interfere with us again// 

Marthe was the one great obstacle in the path of the 
Abbe Faujas. He felt that she was slipping away from 
him, although he brought all his powers of man and 
Priest to bend her to his will, and all in vain. He had 
lost all ability to moderate the zeal with which he had 
inspired her. She had reached the logical end of all 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


333 


passion — eager to enter into peace — into the perfection of 
divine happiness. And it was in her a mortal anguish — to 
be — as it were, chained and walled in by her earthly flesh, 
unable to rise to that brilliant light which she thought she 
saw always floating before and above her. 

At Saint-Saturnin she shivered in the cold shadows 
where she had once drank in such wealth of love Divine ! 
such rapturous bliss. The organ no longer thrilled her 
from head to foot ; the white smoke of the incense no 
longer soothed her to some mystic dream. The blazing 
altars, the golden chasubles, she saw now through a mist 
of tears. 

She extended her arms despairingly; she entreated the 
earthly lover who refused himself to her in these words : 
“ My God ! my God ! Why hast Thou forsaken me?” 
Crushed and wounded by the chill silence of those 
vaulted ceilings, Mar the left the church angry, like a 
woman who has been disdained. She fretted against her 
inability to go further than prayer, and longed to throw 
herself at once into the arms of God. 

She retained hope. She had no other mediator than 
the Abbe. He it was who had opened the way for her ; 
it was for him to tearllie veil asunder. She went to him, 
but the Priest refused to listen to her — forgot himself 
so far as to push her roughly aside as she knelt at his 
feet. She rose sullen and relieved, glad that she could 
turn against him the bitterness of her disappointed hopes, 
and accusing him of cowardice and treachery. 

Old Madame Rougon occasionally interfered between 


334 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


the Abbe and her daughter, as she had done previously 
between her and Mouret. Marthe had made her mother 
her confidante, and Felicite spoke to the Priest as frankly 
as if she had been his mother-in-law, and wished to 
restore peace to their household. 

“Why is it,” she said, with a genial smile, “that you 
cannot live in peace? Marthe is constantly complaining, 
and you are in a continual state of sulks. I know that 
women are exacting; but still, if you, my dear Abbe, were* 
a little more complaisant! I am really pained — be more 
gentle, I beg of you.” 

Thus did she lecture him. She felt instinctively that 
he abused his victory, but she made great excuses for her 
daughter. She told him that her daughter’s temperament 
was excessively nervous; that she required the most 
careful management ; but that her nature was such, that a 
clever man could guide her with a straw. But one day 
when she was holding forth in this way, the Abbe lost all 
patience. 

“ No,” he exclaimed ; “ your daughter is mad, absolutely 
mad. She wearies me to death,” he continued, brutally, 

“ and I would pay any one well, who would rid me of 
her ! ” 

Madame Rougon riveted her eyes on him. Her lips 
were tightly compressed. At last she spoke in slow, 
measured tones: 

“ Listen to me,” she said. “ You are sadly deficient in 
tact. This will be your destruction. Go on, tumble 
head over heels, if you see fit. I wash my hands of you 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


335 


from this day forth. I have aided you, not for your own 
sake, but to fulfil the wishes of our friends in Paris. 
They told me to pilot you. I have done so. Now, mark 
well my words, you will not play the master under my roof. 
Let P6queur and Rastoil tremble at the sight of your 
soutane if they choose ; but we are not afraid of you, and 
we do not intend you to rule us. My husband subjugated 
Plassans before you came here, and we intend to keep 
Plassans, and of this I give you fair warning ! ” 

From this day there was great coolness between the 
Rougons and the Abbe. When Marthe came with fresh 

O 

complaints, her mother said : 

“ Take care. The man has no real liking for you ; he 
is not a true friend ! You will never have any comfort 
with him. Were I you, I would get him out of my house 
as soon as possible. He is so unkempt and unwashed to 
begin with, that I wonder how you can sit at table with 
him.” 

The day that Madame Rougon said this to her daughter, 
Marthe went to Saint-Saturnin, resolved to make one last 
appeal. She waited two hours in the deserted church. 
She could not pray. She longed for the relief for 
which she could not ask. When she went out, the very 
heavens seemed hung with black. She did not feel 
the pavements under her feet, and the narrow streets 
made upon her the impression of an immense solitude. 
She threw her hat and shawl on the table in the dining- 
room, and went directly up-stairs to find the Abbe. 

He was seated at his desk, writing. He opened the 


336 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


door in a preoccupied way; but when he saw her standing 
before him — deadly pale — with a lurid light in her eyes, 
he made an angry gesture. 

“What will you have?” he said. “Why have you 
come up here? Go down and wait for me below, if you 
have anything to say to me.” 

She pushed him aside, and entered the room, without a 
word. 

He hesitated a moment, resisting the temptation to take 
her by the arm and put her outside. He stood facing 
her, with the door wide open. 

“What will you have?” he repeated. “I am busy.” 

She herself closed the door. Then, when she was alone 
with him, she took a seat and said, slowly: 

“I must talk with you!” 

She looked around the room, at the narrow bed, the 
scanty furniture — at the large, dark crucifix against the 
white wall ; as her eyes rested on this, she shivered : an icy 
peace fell from the ceiling. There was no fire; a handful 
of dead ashes lay in the fire-place. 

“You will take cold,” said the Priest, in a calmer voice. 
“Let us go down-stairs.” 

“I must talk with you,” she repeated, mechanically, 
and, with clasped hands, as if she were at confession, she 
continued: 

“I owe you much. Before you came I was as one 
dead — I had no soul. It is to you that I owe my salva- 
tion. It is through you, that I have known the only joys 
of my life. You are my Saviour and my Father! For 
five years I have lived only through you and by you — ” 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


337 


Her voice broke — she glided to the floor. He stopped 
her. 

“I am in mortal agony! ” she cried; “I need your aid. 
Listen to me, my Father ! Do not now withdraw from 
me; you cannot thus abandon me — I tell you that God 
no longer listens to me; He holds Himself aloof. Have 
compassion on me, I implore you. Counsel me; lead me 
to the full perfection of that Divine Grace which you first 
taught me to know. Teach me what I am to do, that I 
may daily advance in the love of God.” 

“ You must pray,” said the Priest, gravely. 

“I do pray; I have prayed for hours this very day, and 
I have felt that God was far away from me.” 

“ Continue to pray — pray until God turns and descends 
upon you.” 

She looked at him beseechingly. 

“Then,” she asked, “there is nothing but prayer? You 
can do nothing for me?” 

“No — nothing,” he answered, roughly. 

She raised her trembling hands with a gesture of re- 
strained anger. She stammered: 

“Your Heaven is cold. You led me to this wall, against 
which I now cast myself. I was peaceful when you came 
here — I lived without a hope, a wish, or a curiosity; and 
you awoke me to life! you brought back my youth. Ah! 
you do not know how happy I was in the beginning. I 
basked in a sweet warmth; I was full of hope; life was 
more to me than a word. I was forty, and I smiled at 
my own folly; but I forgave myself, because I was so 


338 THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 

happy; But now I ask for more. This cannot be all. 
Do you understand that I am weary of this keen longing — 
this longing which keeps me in constant agony? I will 
not be longer fooled — I have not long to live. Let me be 
happy before I die ! ” 

The Priest listened, unmoved, to this flood of burning 
words. 

“You have 'deceived me!” she gasped. “You prom- 
ised me Heaven — you promised it to me there on the 
terrace, in the presence of the stars. I accepted it. But 
now I want my old life back again. I shall put all these 
strangers out of my house, and I will sit in my old seat 
and sew. I want Desiree — I want my children!” 

She burst into sobs. 

“I need my children. It was they who protected me. 
When they were no longer there, I lost my head — I 
neglected all my duties. Why did you rob me of them ? 
They went from me one by one, and my house became as 
that of a stranger. When I come into it now, I seem to 
be where I never was before. I hate this house, but I 
will make it mine again; I will bring back my children. 
Ah ! if they would bring back my sweet, restful nights 
with them ! ” 

She was becoming more and more excited. The Priest 
sought to calm her in a way that had often succeeded. 

“Be reasonable, dear lady,” he said, taking her hands. 

“Do not touch me!” she screamed, recoiling as she 
spoke. “ When you touch me, I am as weak as a child.” 

She looked wildly about the room. 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


339 


“No,” she said, “I am lost in this world and the next. 
If the children should come, they would ask for their 
father, and that is what is killing me. I shall not be for- 
given until I have confessed my crime to a Priest.” 

She fell on her knees. 

“ I am guilty — most guilty, and that is why God turns 
His face from me.” 

The Abbe attempted to raise her. 

“ Hush,” he said, hoarsely ; “ I cannot receive your 
confession here. You must come to Saint-Saturnin to- 
morrow.” 

“ My Father,” she murmured, “ have compassion on 
me. I shall not have strength to-morrow.” 

“ I forbid you to speak,” he replied, with excessive vio^ 
lence. “ I will not hear you.” 

And he drew back with a repelling gesture, his hands 
outspread before him. 

The two looked at each other. 

“ It is not a Priest who will hear you in this place,” he 
said. “It is a man who will judge and condemn you.” 
“A man!” she repeated. “Very well, I prefer a man 
to a Priest ! ” 

She rose to her feet. 

“I will not confess, then; I will tell you my fault. My 
children went, and then my husband. Never once did 
he strike me, nor was he mad. I was the mad one; it 
was I who wounded my own poor flesh to deaden the in- 
ward agony. I threw myself on the floor to cool the fire 
that consumed me ! Then, after this, I was ashamed, and 


340 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


dared not tell the truth. If you knew what I felt as I 
lay there ! He, poor man pitied me, and he was afraid 
of me. Pie never dared come near me ! ” 

The Abbe sought to check her. 

“You are killing yourself/’ he said. “ Why recapitu- 
late all this? God knows all your sufferings.” 

“I sent him to Tulettes,” she resumed, imposing silence 
upon him by an imperative gesture. “You all said he 
was mad, and I have always been in deadly terror of mad- 
ness. When I was young, I used to feel as if some one 
had carried off my brain and left my head empty. I often 
had a sensation as of a block of ice on my forehead, and 
now that feeling has all come back again. I am afraid I 
am going mad. Well, then, I sent my husband away to an 
insane asylum — or rather, I stood still, and let the others 
do it. But lately, whenever I shut my eyes, I see him, 
and this is why I sit sometimes for hours with my eyes 
open, rather than go to bed. I know the house ; I have 
seen it. Uncle Macquart showed it to me — it looked like 
a prison — ” 

She seemed to be choking. She carried her handker- 
chief to her lips. When she took it away it was specked 
with blood. 

The Priest stood with folded arms. 

“You know all now,” she stammered. “I sinned for 
your sake. Give me Life now ! Give me Joy, and I shall 
no longer feel remorse.” 

“You speak falsely,” said the Priest, slowly. “ I did 
not know that you had committed this crime.” 


Tin; CO.h QUEST OF PLASSANS. 


341 


She recoiled, with her hands clasped; then throwing 
aside all restraint, and speaking with appalling rapidity — • 
but in a lo>v, husky voice: 

“ Listen to me, Ovide,” she said, “ I love you, and you 
know it. I have loved you from the first day you entered 
these doors. I never said so to you, for I knew it dis- 
pleased you. But I felt that you divined my heart, and 
I was satisfied. It was for your sake that I emptied my 
house. You consented to all. You allowed me to set 
aside every obstacle between us. And now, that I am sick 
unto death, that I am desolate and alone, you surely will 
not repel and reject me? No! it is impossible. I know 
that we have never spoken of this before in words. But 
my love spoke, and your silence answered. It is the Man 
to whom I now speak, and not to the Priest. You said it 
was not a Priest who heard me now. Ovide, I love you, 
and that love is killing me.” 

She sobbed. The Abb6 drew his tall form to its fullest 
height. He approached Marthe and looked down upon 
her with the contempt he felt for her sex. 

“Ah ! poor, weak humanity!” he said. “I thought 
you would be strong to the end ; that you would never 
dare to breathe such words to me. It is the everlasting 
contest of evil against a strong will. You are the temp- 
tation of this world. You represent everlasting perdition. 
The Priest has no other adversaries than you, and you 
should be driven from the churches as accursed and 
impure.” 

“I love* you, Ovide,” she repeated. “I love you. 
Help me — ” 


342 


THE CONQUEST OF PEASSANS. 


“I have already/* he said, sternly, “ allowed you to 
come too near to me. Woman! you are Satan ! Avaunt ! 
You should be scourged that the evil spirit may leave 
you.** 

She retreated, menaced by the uplifted hand of the 
Priest, until she lay crouching against the wall. Her hair 
was dishevelled, and one lock, streaked with gray, fell over 
her forehead. She looked around the large, empty room, 
as if seeking aid. She saw the pierced form of our Sav- 
iour. She extended her arms with a passionate gesture. 

“ Call not on Christ ! ** said the Priest, fiercely. “Jesus 
lived chastely, and thus learned how to die!** 

Madame Faujas entered with a huge basket of pro- 
visions. She went to her son and took him in her arms. 
“Calm yourself, my son,** she murmured. 

And turning to Marthe, who had not moved, she said : 
“Will you never let him alone? He does not want 
you : why worry him to death ? Go away ! ** 

Marthe did not move. Madame Faujas lifted her to 
her feet and pushed her to the door, scolding her, and tell- 
ing her that she had waited until she was out, to make 
this terrible scene, and that it must never occur again. 
Then she closed the door and locked it. 

Marthe went down-stairs with wavering steps. She 
wept no more, but she said aloud, over and over again : 

“ Frangois will come back ! Frangois shall put them 
all into the street!** 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


343 


CHAPTER XXI. 

SOWING THE WHIRLWIND. 

T HE Diligence from Toulon which passes Tulettes, 
leaves Plassans at three o’clock. Marthe, pursued 
by one idea, would not lose an instant. She put on her 
hat and shawl with feverish haste, and ordered Rose to 
dress. 

“ I can’t imagine what my mistress has in her head,” 
said the cook to Olympe, “ but I think she means to be 
gone several days.” 

Marthe left the keys in the doors and thought only of 
being on her way. Olympe in vain tried to discover 
where she was going, and how long she would be gone. 

“You can be entirely at your ease,” she said, in her 
most dulcet tones. “ I will take care of everything. Take 
your own time. If you go to Marseilles, be sure and 
bring us some shell-fish.” 

And Marthe had not turned the corner, before Olympe 
entered into possession of the house. When Frouche came 
in, he found her in great spirits. 

“ She has gone,” she cried, “ and that fool of a Rose with 
her ! What luck it would be, if they would both tumble 
off a bridge ! But we shall have several days of peace 
anyway. Is it not delicious to be alone?” 

When Marthe and Rose reached the Square, the 


344 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


Diligence was ready to start. When the cook heard her 
mistress tell the conductor that they were going to 
Tulettes, she began to grumble. 

“ I thought you had more sense, Madame, and I hoped 
that we were going to Marseilles, to see Master Octave.” 

Marthe sat in her corner, half fainting. A mortal 
weakness overwhelmed her, but Rose did not look at her. 

“ To think,” she said, “ that we are on our way to see 
my Master! And a dreary sight it is, too! And what 
on earth is the good of it? I hope they won’t let you in.” 

A long, fluttering sigh interrupted her. She turned and 
saw that Marthe was deadly pale. She threw open the 
window, but did not cease her complaints. 

“You ought to be in your bed, Madame, this very 
minute. Just think of the good friends you could have 
had about you. The Cure and his mother — Madame 
Frouche and her husband. I saw Madame Olympe 
crying the last time you were ill. You are making them 
very unhappy, and going to see a man who lias treated 
you worse than a dog ! ” 

Marthe made no reply. She watched the slender trees 
along the roadside, and the wide meadow unroll like 
pieces of brown stuff. 

On arriving at Tulettes, Marthe hurried to her Uncle 
Macquart’s house. 

“ What! you here?” cried her uncle. “I thought you 
were in your bed. I heard you were ill, and you don’t 
look very strong. Do you want some dinner ? ” 

“I want to see Frangois,” said Marthe. 


THE CONQUEST OF PL ASS AN S. 


345 


“ You want to see Frangois ? ” repeated Macquart, look- 
ing her in the face. “ It is a good idea. The poor fellow 
has asked for you often enough, and at last you have 
come to see him ? I thought you had all forgotten him.” 

Great tears dropped from Marthe’s eyes. 

“ It will be difficult for you to get in to-day,” continued 
Macquart, “ for it is after four o’clock. Mouret has not 
been as well lately. He breaks everything, and declares 
that he will set fire to his house ; perhaps they will not 
let you see him.” 

She listened with a shiver. She dared not ask a 
question. She only said, with clasped hands : 

“Dear uncle, I must see Frangois to-day. I came 
purposely. You have friends in the house. You can 
manage it, I am sure.” 

“ Very likely ! Very likely ! ” he murmured. But he 
seemed to be in great perplexity as to the reason for this 
unexpected visit. He looked at the cook, but she shook 
her head. 

“ Remember,” he said, “ if your mother is angry, that 
it was your fault. I am afraid you will make yourself 
ill, for it is a painful sight, I assure you.” 

Rose would not go. She preferred to remain seated in 
front of a crackling fire in the big chimney. 

“ I am not fond of such sights, I tell you, and I was 
never too fond of master, either,” she said, sharply. “No, 
I shall stay here.” 

Macquart did not take his niece through the principal 
door. They entered by one at the side, and after a few 


346 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


words to Alexandre, they followed an endless succession 
of corridors. 

“ I will stay here/’ said Macquart, at the foot of a flight 
of stairs. “Alexandre will go with you.” 

“ I wanted to see him alone/’ murmured Marthe. 

The Guard looked at her with a pitying smile, and as 
he turned the key in a large door, he said : 

“ Do not be afraid. He is calmer to-day, and the tight 
jacket has been removed. If he becomes excited, you will 
get out as quickly as possible, and leave me alone with him.” 
Marthe went in, trembling from head to foot. She saw 
at first only a dark mass in the corner. The day was 
going, and the cell was lighted through a high grated 
window. 

“Ah ! my good fellow,” cried Alexandre, familiarly, as 
he touched Mouret on the shoulder ; “ I bring you a 
visitor. You are going to be civil, I hope.” 

And he went back and leaned against the door, with 
his eyes fixed on his patient. Mouret rose slowly, and did 
not seem to be in the least surprised. 

“It is you, my dear, is it?” he said, quietly. “I 
was looking for you ; I was getting anxious about the 
children.” 

Marthe was touched by the unexpected tenderness of 
this greeting. Her husband was not changed, unless it 
was for the better, for he was stouter. He was carefully 
shaved, and his eyes were clear, and not too bright. He 
rubbed his hands in a way that was familiar to her. 

“ I am well, my dear, perfectly well, and ready to go 


THE CONQUEST OP PLASSANS. 


347 


home. You came for me, I suppose. Has my salad 
been taken good care of? Snails like salad, and at one 
time our garden was full of them. But I know a way 
of getting rid of them. I have a nice plan in my head. 
We are rich enough now, and can indulge our whims. 
Have you seen Gauteir at Sain t-Eu trope since I came 
away? No, of course not — you have no memory.” And 
he threatened her pleasantly with upraised finger. “I 
bought his vineyard, you know, as it stood / 7 he continued. 
U I suppose when I go home everything will be in 
disorder; the garden tools all rusty, the closets dusty. 
By the way, where is Rose? We shall never make 
anything out of her. But why do you not tell me 
something about the children ? Desiree is with her nurse, 
of course ; but I am anxious about Octave. As to Serge, 
he will sanctify the whole family. But tell me all about 
the garden . 77 

And he went on, asking for each tree, showing the most 
accurate memory. 

Mart-lie was much moved by the affection he evinced 
toward her, and the delicacy with which he avoided any 
allusion which could be construed into a reproach. She 
was forgiving, and she swore to win oblivion for her crime 
by becoming the faithful, submissive slave of this man, so 
great and generous. Silent tears ran down her cheeks. 
It seemed to her that she must sink on her knees and 
implore his pardon. 

“ Look out ! 77 said the Guard, in her ear. “ I don 7 t like 
his eyes ! 77 

22 


348 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


“But he is not mad/’ she stammered. “I swear to 
you that he is not mad ! I must see the Superintendent — 
I want to take my husband away at once.” 

“ Look out ! ” repeated the Guard, pulling Marthe 
toward him by the arm. 

Mouret, still talking, slowly sank on the ground, where 
he lay for a minute; then raising himself, he began to 
walk on all-fours along the wall, uttering long-continued 
howls. Suddenly he rose with a leap and fell again. 
Then ensued a terrific *scene ; he twisted himself like a 
snake about the floor, beat his face with his clenched fists, 
and tore his flesh with his nails. Plis garments were soon 
torn into slits, and he himself was in a horrible condition. 

“ Go away, Madame ! ” cried the Guard. 

But Marthe was nailed to the ground. She recognized 
herself ; it was thus she had thrown herself on the floor, 
beaten and maimed herself — even his voice she recognized 
— it was her own hoarse, suffocated tones ! She had driven 
him mad ! 

“ But he is not mad,” she cried ; “ it cannot be ! ” 

The Guard took her in his arms, and put her outside the 
door, where she stood transfixed. She heard terrible 
sounds from within, and finally a dull thud, followed by 
a deadly stillness. When the Guard reappeared, it was so 
dark that she could see only a black hole, as the door 
opened. 

“Upon my word, Madame,” said the man, angrily, 
“you are droll enough, to say that this man is not mad. 
He has nearly bitten my thumb off.” And as he led her 
down-stairs, he continued : 


f 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 349 

“ These are treacherous creatures ; they are quiet and 
sensible for hours and days. They tell you sensible 
stories, and then all at once, without a word of warning, 
fly at your throat ! But I thought something was 
coming ! ” 

When Marthe saw her uncle in the court-yard, she said, 
with tearless eyes, but in a faint, broken voice: 

“ He is mad. Yes, he is mad ! ” 

“Of course he is mad!” answered her uncle, with a 
laugh. “Did you suppose he was put here because he 
was sane? But if he had been in his right mind when 
he came, he would be crazy now. I should be myself, in 
less than two hours.” 

He watched Marthe, as he spoke, out of the corner of 
his eyes ; he gloated over her nervous starts, and then said, 
blandly : 

“ Would you like to see your grandmother?” 

Marthe started back and hid her face in her hands. 

“ You can, if you will,” he continued. “Alexandre can 
manage it. She is near here, and you need not be afraid 
of her: she is always calm. She sits still and looks right 
ahead. But if you do not wish to see her, of course I 
shall not urge it.” 

When Marthe entered her uncle’s house, she was seized 
with one of those terrible convulsions, which, when they 
were over, left her as if dead for hours. 

“There, now! what did I tell you?” said Rose. 
“She is in a nice condition to go home now, is she not? 
Bless my soul ! What an obstinate woman she is.” 


350 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


“Nonsense,” said Macquart. “What is the use of 
making such a fuss? I shall just put her on my bed, 
and it won’t hurt the rest of us to spend a night by the 
fire.” 

He pulled aside the curtain that hung over the alcove, 
and Rose undressed her mistress, saying that there was 
nothing to be done but to put a hot brick to her feet. 

“ Now she is quiet,” said Macquart ; “ later, we two 
will have some hot wine and a mouthful to eat.” 

They added more vine boughs to the fire, and estab- 
lished themselves comfortably. 

“ You think, then,” said Macquart, with his elbows on 
the table, “that my niece came here from a mere wild 
whim ? ” 

“ Don’t talk to me about it,” the cook answered, angrily. 
“ Madame is quite as crazy as my master. She does not 
know what she likes, or what she does not like. I think 
she had a quarrel with the Cure just before she started, 
for I heard them talking very loud.” 

Macquart laughed uproariously. 

“ They were good friends before that ? ” he asked. 

“To be sure; but nothing ever stays in a brain 
like Madame’s. I believe she is regretting the beatings 
my master used to give her in the middle of the night. 
We found the stick in the garden only the other day.” 

Macquart looked at her a moment, and then said : 

“Perhaps she came for Frangois.” 

“ Heaven forbid ! ” answered Rose, aghast. “ He would 
kill us all. Do you know that sometimes I can’t sleep ! 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


351 


Every sound I hear, makes me think he is on his way to 
assassinate us all. I seem to see him coming through the 
window, with his eyes as bright as matches.” 

Macquart laughed again. 

“That would be a great joke!” he said, “a great 
joke ! He does not like any of you much, I fancy, espe- 
cially the Priest, who has taken his place ; and he would 
not make more than one mouthful of the Abbe.” 

At this moment Alexandre the Guard came in, and 
drew his chair to the table. 

“Do you hear, Alexandre?” said Macquart. “This 
woman has a notion that your charge will escape some 
night, and murder them all in their beds.” 

The Guard smiled superciliously. At this moment 
Marthe uttered a hoarse cry, and they ran to her side. 
Rose was obliged to hold her for some moments. But 
when she was again unconscious, the uncle returned to the 
fire and stood there meditating. Suddenly he asked : 
“What have the Rougons to say about all this? They 
side with the Abbe, I suppose.” 

“My master was not such a favorite with them, that 
they need waste much time in regretting him,” was the 
cook’s reply. “Nor did he like them overmuch.” 

“And he was right,” answered Macquart. “ When I 
think of that magnificent field of wheat that they could 
have had for a song, I realize how mean they are. How 
Felicite would look if Frangois should walk in some day!” 
He lighted his pipe. 

“Alexandre, my boy, it is growing late, I will walk a 
little way with you.” 


352 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


And he went out with the Guard. Rose, at the end of 
a half hour, tired of being alone, opened the door and 
went out on the terrace. The night was clear and cold, 
and as she stood there, she saw on the other side of the 
road, two shadows, half hidden by the hedge. 

“ That is the uncle, ” she thought, “ and I think it is a 
Priest with him.” 

A few minutes more and Macquart came in. He said 
that Alexandre had told him the most hideous stories, and 
he thought he would never get through. 

“Did I not see you just now with a Priest?” asked 
Rose. 

“ I with a Priest ! ” he cried. “ What the devil put 

that into vour head ? There is no Priest in the whole 
* 

place ! ” 

He hesitated, as if not quite at ease in regard to this 
falsehood, and then added : 

“ No one, I mean, but the Abbe Fenil. He does not 
count, though, for he never goes out.” 

“The Abbe Fenil does not amount to much?” said 
Rose, loftily. 

“ Not amount to much ? I should like to know what 
you mean by that — ” But he checked himself, and added, 
with a laugh : 

“ But you are right, after all, for all Cur6s are hypo- 
crites. I know who it was you took for a Priest ; it was 
the grocer’s wife. She had on a black dress, and is my 
nearest neighbor.” 

Martlie here started up, pushed her hair from her face, 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


353 


and looked wildly about the room. As soon as she re- 
alized where she was, she insisted on going away at once. 
Macquart seemed to be very much annoyed at this. 

“It is impossible,” he said; “you cannot go back to 
Plassans at this hour. You are ill, besides, and would 
have to stop on your way. Rest to-night, and to-morrow 
we will see. Besides, there is no carriage.” 

“You will take me in your carriole?” she urged. 

“ No, no ! I cannot ! I will not ! ” 

Marthe, all the time arranging her dress with trembling 
hands, said she would start on foot, rather than pass the 
night at Tulettes. Her uncle locked the door, and put 
the key in his pocket. He entreated his niece; threatened 
her; invented all sorts of stories, during which she put 
on her hat and wrapped her shawl around her. 

“You won’t make her give up,” muttered Rose. “No 
one ever did yet. You had much better harness up.” 
Macquart was furiously angry ; but with a shrug of his 
shoulders, he exclaimed : 

“Well ! why should I care? Go where you please.” 
And he went out to the stable. 

It was necessary to carry Marthe to the carriole. Her 
teeth chattered, and she shook from head to foot. 

It was about ten o’clock. The sky was heavy with 
clouds. All along the road Macquart seemed to be watch- 
ing for something behind the hedges. Rose asked him for 
what? As he was again in a good humor, he answered, 
with a laugh : “For wolves from the mountains.” About a 
league from Plassans the rain began to fall keen and pelt- 


354 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


ing. The uncle swore, and Rose would have liked to 
beat her mistress, who was suffering agonies under a heavy 
blanket. But when they drove into the town, the sky 
was blue, and the rain had ceased. 

“Do you want to go to your own house?” he asked. 

“ Of course,” answered Rose, astonished at the question. 

He then said, that as Marthe was so very ill, he thought 
it much better to take her to her mother’s. With reluct- 
ance, he drove to the Mouret house. Here a new diffi- 
culty arose, for Rose had no latch-key. She knocked, but 
heard only in reply the echoes in the wide corridor. 

“ You had best let them alone,” said Macquart, with a 
silent laugh ; “ they won’t disturb themselves ! You see 
my first idea was a good one, after all ! The poor child 
must be taken to her mother’s ; she will be better there than 
in her own room. I assure you that I am right.” 

Felicite was overwhelmed when she saw her daughter 
in this state and at this hour. She called up all her ser- 
vants, and made a great commotion. When all was calm 
again, and she was seated by Marthe’s bedside, she asked 
for an explanation. 

“ What has happened?” she said. “What has brought 
you to this state?” 

Macquart, in a most benevolent tone, now interposed and 
told the story of what had happened to “the poor child.” 
He defended himself, and said he had done everything to 
prevent her from seeing Francois, and called upon Rose to 
bear witness to the truth of what he said, when he saw 
that Felicite was looking at him suspiciously. 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


355 


“ It is very strange,” she said. “ I cannot understand 
it at all.” 

She knew Macquart so well that she felt almost sure 
of some rascality when she detected a gleam of malignant 
joy in his eyes. 

“ It is you who are strange,” he said, feigning anger. 
“ How on earth can I tell you more than I know! I am 
quite as fond of Marthe as you are, and I have her inter- 
est quite as much at heart. I am ready now to go for the 
Doctor, if you say so.” 

Madame Rougon followed him with her eyes. She 
questioned Rose, but learned nothing. She was in reality 
glad to have her daughter with her. She spoke of Marthe 
as not being allowed to enter her own doors by the people 
who had taken possession of her house. And all this time 
Marthe lay slowly dying. 


356 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

FIRE ! FIRE ! 

I N the cell at Tulettes it was dark as night. A blast of 
icy wind aroused Mouret from the cataleptic stupor 
into which he had fallen. He was half sitting, half lying, 
supported by the wall, and rolled his head to and fro, 
like a child on its first awakening. But the wind on his 
legs was so cold, that he drew them up, and then looked 
around. He rather felt than saw, that the door of his cell 
was wide open. 

“ Yes,” said the madman, aloud. “She is waiting for 
me. I must go.” 

He went out into the corridor, shutting the door care- 
fully behind him as he went. He crossed the first court- 
yard with his precise, regular step, but as he reached the 
second, he caught sight of a man who seemed to be 
watching him. Pie stopped, but at the same moment the 
Guard turned on his heel, and Mouret hurried on and 
found another door leading into the country, also set wide 
open. He closed that too, without the smallest astonish- 
ment, and continued his way without any evidence of 
haste. 

“She is a good little woman, after all,” he said. “She 
heard me when I called. It must be very late, and they 
will be Growing anxious about me at home.” 

o O 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


357 


It seemed to him to be perfectly natural that he should 
be thus free and alone. And after he had gone a hundred 
rods he totally forgot the existence of Tulettes, and fancied 
himself returning from one of his long pedestrian tours 
among the vineyards, where he had made so many fortu- 
nate speculations. He was perfectly familiar with the 
way ; and as he reached a place where five roads met, he 
said, gayly : 

“ In another hour and a half I shall be in Plassans ! ” 

He walked on at a steady pace, though a few drops of 
rain now began to fall, and the wind was rising. 

“I must hurry,” muttered Mouret, “the wind is from 
the east, and it will pour presently. I wish I could get in 
town before the rain.” 

And he folded the gray coat, which he had torn into 
shreds at Tulettes, more closely over his breast. On his 
jaw was a long, deep wound, to which he carried his hand 
mechanically, not having any idea of the origin of the 
pain he felt. The high-road was deserted ; he saw only a 
light wagon, which passed him slowly. The rain caught 
him on the bridge over the Viorne, and he went under the 
bridge for shelter, muttering that he wished he had brought 
an umbrella, for nothing spoiled the clothes like rain. He 
waited for a half hour, until the shower abated, and then 
resumed his walk, taking great care not to spatter himself 
with mud. 

It was then not far from midnight, but he supposed it 
to be about eight o’clock. He crossed the empty streets at 
a hasty pace, sorry to keep his wife waiting so long. 


358 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


“ Dinner will be cold, and Rose will be as cross as a 
bear ! ” 

He reached his door. 

“ Bless me ! ” he said, “ I have not my latch-key ! ” 

He did not knock, however. The kitchen windows were 
dark, and all the others equally dead. A great distrust 
came over the madman ; with the instinct of an animal he 
scented danger. He drew back into the shadow of the 
next houses, and looked up, questioningly, at the entire 
facade, and then started off round the corner to the lane. 
But the small door was bolted ; with prodigious strength, 
however, he burst the door open. The violence of the 
shock almost stunned him, and no longer knowing why 
he had sought this entrance, nor why he had employed 
such violence, he began to think of repairing the door. 

“ Why did I not knock, I wonder ! A new door will 
cost me at least thirty francs,” he added, in a tone of deep 
regret. 

He was in the garden now, and, looking up, he saw his 
own bed-room brilliantly lighted, and the shadow of a 
woman evidently preparing for bed. This astonished him, 
and he wondered if he could have fallen asleep under the 
bridge, for it was evidently much later than he supposed. 
He looked at the houses on either side, and saw that they 
were both dark. He raised his eyes to the upper floor 
of his own house, where, from behind the thick curtains, 
came the Abbe’s light; it affected him like a flaming eye 
set in the centre of the fagade; he pressed his hands to his 
head, as painful recollections crowded upon him; he 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


359 


struggled to recall a vague peril which threatened to 
engulf his home, if he did not rescue it. 

“Marthe!” he called aloud; “Marthe! where are you? 
Come, and bring the children.” 

He wandered through the garden, looking for Marthe, 
but the garden itself was strange to him. It seemed larger 
and emptier. The box-border had all disappeared ; the 
lettuce-beds had vanished ; the fruit trees seemed to have 
walked away. He got down on his knees to see if the 
slugs had done all this. The death of the box — of all this 
luxuriant verdure — struck to his heart as if it had been 
a living, breathing member of his family. Who had torn 
up this box ? What harrow had passed over that spot, 
uprooting even the violets which he had planted at the 
foot of the terrace ? 

“ Marthe ! Marthe ! where are you ? ” he groaned. 

He looked for her in the little hot-house, near the ter- 
race ; he found it filled with the dry box which had been 
thrown in there, as well as the limbs and dissevered trunks 
of the fruit trees. In a corner hung Desiree’s bird-cage, 
with the door swinging loosely on the hinges. The mad- 
man drew back, as dismayed as if he had looked into a 
tomb. He tottered up the terrace steps, and wandered up 
and down before the close-shut windows. He moved as 
softly as a beast of prey, looking for an entrance. Sud- 
denly he gained it through a cellar window. The door 
leading from the cellar was simply latched. He felt his 
way in the thick darkness, until he reached the vestibule, 
where he found the matches in their accustomed place, on 


360 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


the shelf, and then lighted the lamp, without breaking or 
jarring anything. He then examined, first, the kitchen, 
and then the dining-room. Evidently some great repast- 
had been served, for the kitchen was in a melancholy state 
of disorder; piles of dirty dishes encumbered the table; 
unwashed saucepans stood about ; a coffee-pot bubbled on 
the lighted furnace. Mouret put some of the things in 
their places, tasted the liquor in the glasses, and counted 
the plates with fast-growing irritation. It was not the 
cool, clean kitchen he had always known — the kitchen of 
a retired merchant; it looked like that of a dirty inn. 

“ Marthe ! Marthe ! ” he called, going out into the ves- 
tibule with the lamp in his hand. “Where are you? 
Come, we must go at once.” 

He looked for her in the dining-room. The two closets 
on each side of the stove stood wide open. A paper bag, 
with a hole in the side, was slowly emptying itself on the 
floor. On the shelf stood a bottle of brandy, a wad of old 
linen doing duty as a cork. He stood up on a chair to 
see the condition of the upper shelves. They were nearly 
empty. The sweetmeat jars were uncovered, some with 
spoons standing in them, fermenting and candied, or 
mouldy. Dried fruits scattered about, and provisions of 
all kinds, looking as if an army of rats had passed over 
them. 

He again resumed his search for Marthe, peering behind 
the curtains and under the *table, rewarded only by a bone, 
or a crumb of bread ; and upon the polished table were 
sticky rings where glasses had stood. 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


361 


He crossed the corridor, and entered the salon, blit 
stopped on the threshold. Was this his room? The pale 
mauve paper, the carpet, the new chairs in deep hued vel- 
vet, were all new to him. 

“ Marthe ! Marthe ! ” he cried, despairingly. 

He went back to the vestibule — a hoarse sob in his 
throat. Who had so transformed his home? And the 
haunting memories returned. He saw shadows glide 
through the corridor — two black shadows — poor and obse- 
quious. Then two others, holding their heads high, with 
sneering laughs. He raised the lamp with its flaring wick. 
The shadows spread and lengthened against the wall, and 
glided up the staircase, devouring the entire house. 

What ferment of decomposition had been brought here, 
which had rotted the wood-work — rusted the steel, and 
tarnished the walls? It seemed to him that the house was 
melting away, like a lump of salt thrown into warm water. 
He heard gay laughter from above. He put the lamp on 
the floor, and went up-stairs in search of Marthe. He 
went up four steps at a time, with the softness of a wolf. 
When he was at the door of his wife’s room, he stopped, 
for a ray of light came from under the door. Marthe 
must have gone to bed. 

“ Yes,” said Olympe’s voice; “she knows what a good 
bed is ; it is as soft as possible. To tell the truth,” she 
continued, “I never could see that simple Marthe lying 
here, that I did not feel tempted to drag her out, and put 
myself in her place.” 

Frouche was moving around the room, rattling the 
bottles on the toilette table. 


362 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


“She has all sorts of perfumes ! ” he muttered. He 
then opened the drawers, and rummaged in the linen. 

“ Put that on ! ” he said, throwing a night-dress to 
Olympe. “It is all covered with lace, and I like to sleep 
with a woman that has lots of lace about her. I shall take 
this red silk handkerchief. Did you change the sheets?” 
“ No, indeed,” she replied ; “ I never thought of it : they 
are perfectly clean. She is a very particular person ! ” 
And as Frouche was about to put out the candle, she 
exclaimed : 

“ Put the drinks on the night-table. Now, my dear, we 
are as comfortable as if we owned the whole house.” 

They pulled the eider-down up to their chins, and lay 
basking in the delightful warmth. 

“I have eaten well to-night,” murmured Frouche. 
“And drank well, too,” Olympe added, laughing. 
“And I too have nothing to complain of, if mamma 
were not always at my heels. To-day she has been 
intolerable. I have not been able to take one step. 
Madame Mouret might just as well have remained at 
home, if mamma is to act as police officer.” 

“Is not your brother thinking of going away?” asked 
Frouche. “If he is made Bishop, he will have to leave 
this house to us ! ” 

“ Heaven only knows ! ” she answered, pettishly. “ I 
dare say mamma will stick to it. Plow nice it would be 
if we could just stay here alone! I would send the land- 
lady to my brother’s room to sleep. I should tell her it 
was much more healthy. Hand me the glass, Honore ! ” 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


363 


They both drank, and then buried themselves once 
more under the covers. 

“As for myself,” said Frouche, “I think the Abbe 
would have departed long ago, if he had not been afraid 
of the landlady making a row; but I will settle them 
both before long.” 

He took another drink. 

“ What should you say, my dear, if I should make love 
to the lady myself?” 

“You are too old, and too ugly,” answered Olympe, 
amid shrieks of laughter. “ So far as I am concerned, you 
may do as you please; but she would not look at you. 
Let me manage it. I will get rid of mamma and Ovide.” 
“ But if you should not succeed,” he murmured, “ I 
will tell everywhere, that the Abbe has taken Mouret’s 
place in this room, and then he will have to leave.” 

“That is a capital idea,” said Olympe; “and the 
sooner you begin operations the better.” 

They then began to tell each other what changes they 
would make in the room, how they would have another 
mirror, and bring up two arm-chairs from the salon. 

“Change places with me,” said Olympe, “I am not 
sleepy, and I want to finish my novel.” 

She rose and rolled him like a log of wood toward the 
wall, and began to read. Suddenly she lifted her eyes 
from her book and fixed them on the door. She fancied 
she heard a strange sound in the corridor. 

She gave her husband a little push with her elbow, 
deciding that it was he who had made the noise. 

23 


364 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


“ Don’t do that again,” he exclaimed. “You know 
I hate such jokes/’ 

And she returned to her novel, having drank her grog 
and sucked the slice of lemon. 

Mouret, with his velvety step, glided away from her 
door, and up to that of the Abbe, where he stooped and 
looked through the key-hole, to assure himself that Marthe 
was not there. The large room was full of shadows. A 
small lamp near the edge of the table threw on the floor a 
round spot of light. The Priest, who was writing, was 
a black spot in the centre of this yellow light. Mouret’s 
eyes wandered to the bed, whose white sheets were 
drawn tightly. The Abbe seemed to have heard some 
noise, for he looked toward the door. When the madman 
saw the Priest’s calm face, his eyes became suffused, a light 
foam appeared at the corners of his lips. He restrained an 
impulse to shriek aloud. He retreated softly, and has- 
tened down the stairs, saying, in a hoarse whisper : 

“ Marthe ! Marthe ! ” 

He sought her through the house. In the cook’s room, 
which he found empty — in the old lodging of the Frouche 
pair — in the vacant rooms of the children — where he sobbed 
as his hand fell on a pair of little boots once worn by 
Desiree. He went up and down the stairs with marvellous 
rapidity, and after a while became satisfied that his wife 
was not there, nor yet Rose. The house was empty ; he 
cared not what became of it. 

The madman sat on the stairs and smothered the shriek 
that rose to his lips. His senses had become so acute that 
he heard the faintest noises in the house. 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


365 


He heard Frouche snore, and Olympe turn over the 
pages of her book. From above came the sound of the 
Abbe’s pen going over the paper with a rustling sound like 
the wings of an insect, while in the next room Madame 
Fauj as breathed a loud accompaniment to this faint 
music. 

Mouret sat for an hour with all his senses on the alert. 

He heard Olympe’s novel fall upon the floor. Then 
the Abbe laid down his pen, and in a few minutes the 
house was all asleep. 

But Mouret waited. The house now was all his own; 
four helpless persons were lying there in profound slum- 
ber. Then he rose, murmuring as he did so : 

“ Marthe is not here — nothing is here ! ” 

He opened the door on the garden, and went to the 
little hot-house, from whence he brought huge armfuls 
of the dry box, which he piled before the doors of the 
Abb6 and Frouche. As he needed more light, he brought 
out all the lamps and candles from the kitchen and set 
them up and down the stairs, and then brought in more 
box. The pile was now as high as the doors, but sud- 
denly looking up he caught sight of the windows, and at 
once brought in branches of the fruit trees and arranged 
them so that the draught would come directly upon them. 

“This is not enough,” he said, and turning he went 
down the cellar and brought up coal and wood, and dis- 
tributed all these combustibles through the various rooms, 
ending by adding the furniture to the pile. An hour 
elapsed in this labor, so skilfully performed, that not a 


366 


THE CONQUEST OF PL ASS A NS. 


sound had been heard. He seemed endowed with new 
life under the influence of this one absorbing idea. 

When all was ready, he went from pile to pile, admiring 
their symmetry of form. He rubbed his hands with an 
air of extreme satisfaction. Several pieces of charcoal had 
fallen on the stairs ; he went for a broom, and swept up the 
black dust, and then looked around once more. 

He turned and lighted the piles one by one, from the 
hall door up to that of the Abbe ; his fury increased as the 
flames grew brighter and brighter; he did not seem to 
feel the thick heavy smoke, but watched it ascend with 
silent but terrible laughter. He sat on the upper stairs 
guarding the passage. 

Suddenly a wild shriek was heard : 

“ Ovide ! Ovide ! ” 

Madame Faujas threw her door open, and the flame 
swept into the room. The old woman fought her way 
out through the crackling brushwood, and beat upon her 
son’s door, which suddenly fell in. 

She leaped over it, and instantly reappeared, bearing her 
son in her arms. He had delayed to put on his soutane, 
and had nearly lost consciousness. 

“ Hold me tight ! ” she said ; “ take hold of my hair, if 
you feel yourself falling. But I can carry you.” 

She bore him on her shoulders as if he had been a child, 
and this sublime mother — this old peasant — with devo- 
tion unto Death, did not waver under the weight of that 
ponderous and fainting form. She crushed the burning 
coals under her bare feet, and made her way to the stairs. 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 367 

At that moment the madman leaped upon the Abbe, and 
tore him from his mother’s arms. 

He strangled the Priest, uttering all the time the 
fierce cry : 

“ Marthe ! Marthe ! ” 

And the two rolled down the stairs together, carrying 
with them the enraged mother. 

The Frouche pair were never again seen, and the house 
soon fell amid a shower of sparks. 



i 


368 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

THE SOUTANE. 

~TV /T ACQUART did not find Dr. Porquier at home, 
and was an hour looking for him. When he went 
back to the Rougons’, Felicite, who was sitting at her 
daughter’s side, rose to receive the physician. 

“ Ah ! dear Doctor,” she sobbed, “ we are very anxious. 
The poor child has not moved since we put her there. 
Her hands are already cold. I cannot warm them.” 

Dr. Porquier examined the dying woman, shook his 
head, and said, gently : 

“Dear Madame, you will need all your courage.” 

Felicite sobbed convulsively. 

“ Yes,” he continued, “ for a long time I have feared 
this sad denoument. Her lungs have been affected for 
years, and this difficulty has been complicated by a nervous 
disease.” 

He took a chair, while on his lips played the smile of a 
fashionable physician, who wishes to be polite even in the 
presence of Death. 

“ Do not despair, dear Madame. The catastrophe was 
only a question of time. Poor Madame Mouret has 
coughed all her life, has she not? But in the last three 
years the malady has made frightful progress. But how 
great has been her piety and her faith ! The decrees of 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


369 


the Almighty are past finding out, and Science is powerless 
before them.” 

And as Madame Rougon continued to weep, he lavished 
upon her the most tender consolation, even entreating her 
to take a glass of tea made from Linden flowers. 

“She suffers no longer,’ 7 he said. “She will continue 
to sleep, and will, perhaps, sink away without recovering 
consciousness. I will remain here, useless as my care will 
be now. But I remain as a friend, dear lady — as a friend.” 

He settled himself comfortably in an arm-chair, and 
Felicite grew calmer by degrees. When she realized that 
Marthe had but a few hours more to live, she wished to 
send for Serge, for the Seminary was near by. 

Rose refused to go. 

“Want to kill him, too, do you? It would be a 
terrible thing for him to be waked up in the middle of the 
night to see his mother die. No, I will not be his 
executioner.” 

Rose, although she knew her mistress to be dying, did 
not feel very kindly toward her. 

“ There is no sense in what my mistress has done,” she 
muttered. “Who can wonder that she has killed herself? 
And now we are to suffer. No, I will not bring that poor 
boy here ! ” 

But she ended by going to the Seminary. 

Dr. Porquier still murmured gentle words to Felicite. 

A long sigh was heard from Marthe ; the door gently 
opened, and Macquart looked in. 

“ Where have you been ? ” asked Madame Rougon. 


370 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


“To leave my carriole and horse at the Inn/’ he 
answered. 

But his eyes were so bright, and his whole countenance 
so animated, that she was filled with vague suspicions. 
She forgot her dying daughter in her eagerness to discover 
a rascality which she more than half suspected. 

“ I believe you have been following some one,” she 
said, looking down on his muddy boots and pantaloons. 
“What is going on, Macquart? We have always been 
kind to you. Tell me.” 

“Oh! yes, very kind ! ” sneered the uncle. “Kougon 
was kind about that wheat field, I suppose? Where is 
Bougon, by the way ? Asleep, I suppose? Little does 
he care for anything one does for the family ! ” 

The smile which accompanied these words disturbed 
Felicite. 

“ What have you done for the family?” she asked. “Do 
you expect gratitude for having taken my poor Marthe to 
the Insane Asylum ? And I have yet to understand why 
you brought her here. Why did you not knock louder 
and longer at her own door? No, there is something 
hidden. I am thankful the poor child is here. She will 
die at least with those she loves about her.” 

Macquart said, uneasily : 

“I thought you and the Abbe Faujas were great 
friends ?” 

She did not reply. She went to Marthe, whose breath- 
ing became more and more labored. When she came 
back, she saw that Macquart was standing at the window, 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


371 


wiping away the moisture with his hand from the glass 
and peering out into the night. 

“ I must see you to-morrow before you go,” she said. 
“ I must understand this.” 

“Just as you say,” he replied, moodily. “No one ever 
knows how you stand with people. You like them to-day, 
you don’t like them to-morrow.” 

He was evidently annoyed to discover that the Rougons 
no longer adored the Abbe Faujas. At this moment a 
great light reddened the sky. 

“What is that?” asked Felicity. 

He opened the casement and looked out. “ It seems to 
be a fire,” he said, indifferently. “A fire in the rear of the 
Prefect’s, I should say.” 

The Square was filled with noise, and a servant came to 
say that it was the house of Madame Mouret, and that 
Monsieur Mouret, who was supposed to be in the asylum, 
had been seen in the garden with a lighted torch in his 
hand, and it was doubtful if the inmates could be saved. 

Felicite turned quickly and looked at Macquart. It 
was all clear to her now. 

“ You promised,” she said, coldly, “ never to meddle 
with us again, when we installed you in your house at 
Tulettes. It is shameful ! How much did the Abbe Fenil 
give you to open the doors for Frangois?” 

He began to bluster, but she bade him be silent, and 
seemed much more disquieted by the inevitable conse- 
quences, than by the crime itself. 

Macquart attempted to defend himself — swore he had 


372 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


done nothing. Then, as the sky grew more and more 
lurid, and as Dr. Porquier had gone out, Macquart said 
that he must go and see what was going on. 

It was Monsieur Pequeur des Saulaies who had given 
the alarm. He had entertained friends that evening, and 
about one o’clock was awakened by a strange red light on 
his ceiling. He went to the window and saw a great fire in 
the Mouret garden, around which a shadow — which at first 
he did not recognize — was dancing, brandishing a blazing 
grape branch. The flames were pouring from the win- 
dows. Pequeur shouted to his servants and sent some one 
for the engines, while he rushed out of the house into the 
street, which was dark, silent, and deserted. 

He knocked at the door, but all was silent within. He 
then pounded at that of Monsieur Rastoil. There he 
heard piercing shrieks, accompanied by the banging of 
doors and angry commands. 

The door opened and Monsieur Rastoil, with his wife 
and youngest daughter, rushed out. Aurelie, in her haste, 
had snatched a coat of her father’s and thrown it over her 
shoulders. She colored when she saw the sub-Prefect, and 
tried to conceal her white arms. 

“ What a terrible misfortune!” said the President. “We 
can save nothing. The walls are already hot.” 

Madame Rastoil wept over the furniture of her draw- 
ing-room, which had just been newly covered. Assistance 
soon appeared, and several chairs were brought out in 
which the ladies were seated. Monsieur Pequeur remained 
near them to reassure them. 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 373 

“ I think, Madame,” he said, “ that your house will be 
saved.” 

The windows of the Mouret Mansion were all ablaze 
— the street was as light as day. A chain was organized, 
but the engine did not come. The sub-Prefect from the 
place where he stood, at the side of the ladies, gave his orders. 

“ Stand back ! ” he cried. “ Separate a little, the chain 
is too close. Stand two feet apart.” 

Then turning to Aurelie he said, in a low voice : 

“ I cannot understand where the pumps are, they ought 
to be here ! ” 

The bell of Saint-Saturnin sounded the tocsin, drums 
beat, and at last the pumps rattled down the street, but it 
was fully ten minutes before they were in working order. 

“ The piston will not work !” cried the Captain, in reply 
to some reproof from the sub-Prefect. 

Presently the water hissed upon the flames, which at 
first rose higher and fiercer. 

A salon was created at once in the open air ; arm-chairs 
were arranged in a circle at a safe distance. Madame de 
Condamin arrived with her husband, and all the various 
men of their little circle. 

Madame de Condamin questioned the sub-Prefect. 

“Has any one seen the Abbe Faujas?” she said, 
anxiously. 

“ I knocked myself,” said Monsieur Pequeur des Sau- 
laies, “ but I could obtain no answer. I ordered the door 
beaten down, but my men were driven back by the smoke 
and the flames.” 


374 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


“What a terrible death !” murmured the fair Octavie, 
with a shiver. 

The ladies and gentlemen, white in the light of the fire, 
looked at each other. Dr. Porquier stated that a death of 
that kind was not as painful, perhaps, as was supposed. 

“ It must be all over in a moment,” he said. 

“Madame Mouret is at her mother’s,” said Monsieur de 
Condamin ; “ but there are four persons in the house.” 
And he counted them on his fingers : “ the Abbe Faujas, 
his mother, his sister, and his brother-in-law.” 

At this moment Madame Rastoil leaned toward her 
husband. 

“ Is my watch safe?” she asked, earnestly. 

Monsieur Delangre begged that one more effort should 
be made to succor the victims. But the Captain of the 
engine said, roughly, that Delangre had best try the ladder 
himself, if he thought it so easy. As for himself, he had 
never seen a fire like it, for the house seemed to be on 
fire in all parts at once. 

“ It would be a superb sight,” said Madame de Conda- 
min, “ if it were not so sad.” 

It was indeed superb. Great showers of sparks flew in 
all directions. The sky was a deep blue, and the flames 
brilliant red and orange. The ladies and gentlemen sat in 
their arm-chairs, looking on as at a spectacle, while the 
moving, gesticulating crowd worked on. There was a 
rush of water, a loud crackling of the fire, and the regular 
thump of the pumps. 

“ Look at that third window on the second floor,” cried 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


375 


Monsieur Maffre. “ I can see a bed burning, the curtains 
are yellow.” 

“ Does any one know,” asked Madame de Condamin, 
“ how this fire took ?” 

The sub-Prefect then told how he had seen the strange 
figure in the garden. 

“ I saw it also,” interrupted Aur6lie Eastoil ; “ it was 
Monsieur Mouret.” 

“ But that is impossible,” every one exclaimed. “ How, 
in the first place, could Mouret escape from the asylum? 
And, in the next place, why should he burn his house?” 

And Aurelie was overwhelmed with questions. 

Madame Eastoil was evidently annoyed. Why should 
her daughter always be at the window at night? 

“ I assure you,” said Aurelie, “that I saw him. I was 
wakened by the light, and I saw Monsieur Mouret 
dancing in the middle of the flames.” 

“ Mademoiselle is right,” said the sub-Prefect. “I did 
not know him then, for to tell the truth, I was so startled, 
and the scene was so strange, that I did not know what to 
think, but I must see to this at once.” 

And he turned away, leaving all these people to wonder 
at the anomaly of a landlord burning his tenants. 
Monsieur Bourden complained of carelessness in the 
management of Insane Asylums. 

“ Insane persons treasure up their wrongs,” said 
Monsieur de Condamin, quietly. 

This sentence embarrassed every one. The women 
shivered, and the men looked at each other. The flaming 


376 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


house became even more interesting, now that it was 
known who had set the fire. 

“ If Mouret is there/’ said de Condamin, “ that makes 
five.” 

The ladies entreated him to say no more — that it was 
too horrible. 

The Paloques from the windows of their dining-room 
had a most satisfactory view of the fire. The chairs were 
all placed just under them. They now came down to beg 
the ladies to come in. 

“ You will take cold/’ she said. 

Madame de Condamin smiled. 

“ The pavements are burning/’ she replied. “Are you 
cold, Mademoiselle ? ” 

Aurelie hastened to assure her that she was, if 
anything, too warm. 

As every one agreed in saying that they were comfort- 
able, Madame Paloque decided to establish herself also in 
an arm-chair. 

The Mayor and Monsieur P6queur des Saulaies were 
talking a little apart. The Mayor had just come from the 
lane. He passed his hand over his face, as if to drive 
away some haunting sight, and was heard to say : 
“ Horrible ! Horrible ! ” but he would answer no question. 

“ Only Bourden and Delangre regret the Abb6, it 
seems,” whispered de Condamin, in the ear of Madame 
Paloque. 

“They had a great deal to do with each other/’ she 
answered, quietly. “Here comes the Abb& Bourette. 
I am inclined to believe his tears are sincere.” 


THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 


377 


The poor man would listen to no consolation, nor 
would he take the chair that was offered. The Abbe 
Surin had been there for a few moments, but he had 
disappeared. 

“ Let us go to bed! ” exclaimed Monsieur de Bourden. 

Every one rose, and it was decided that the Rastoils 
should spend the night at the Paloquesk Madame de 
Condamin shook out her skirts, which were slightly 
crushed ; the chairs were pushed back, and the assembled 
group bade each other good-night. 

The pumps were still at work ; the fire was well under; 
the black smoke was still pouring out. 

“It is all over,” said Macquart to himself, as he stood 
looking on ; but he lingered a moment to hear the last 
words exchanged between de Condamin and Madame 
Paloque. 

“ Pshaw ! ” said that amiable lady, “ no one will re- 
gret him, except that good-natured simpleton, Bourette. 
He was unsupportable, and we were all his slaves. 
Monseigneur ought to rejoice that he — that Plassans 
is free.” 

“And the Rougons,” added her companion ; “ they must 
be enchanted.” 

“ To be sure, they are in the seventh heaven, for they 
inherit his Kingdom. They would have paid well for this 
night’s work.” 

Macquart walked off in a gloomy state of mind. Had 
he been again duped by the Rougons ? And, as he crossed 
the Square, he swore never again to work in the dark. 


378 THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 

As lie went up to the room where Martlie lay dying, he 
found Rose seated on the stairs. 

“ No, I will not stay in the room ! ” she cried. “ I will 
not look on at such things. They sent me for the boy. I 
brought him here, and he was as white as a sheet, and 
now he is in there. It will kill him ! I wish I had never 
been born. I mean to go away and live in a hole, where I 
can never see any one. Life is a series of wretched things.” 

Macquart entered the room. Madame Rougon was 
kneeling with her face in her hands, while Serge held the 
head of his dying mother, who had not regained conscious- 
ness. The last light of the fire filled the room with a red 
reflection. 

Marthe shivered. She opened her eyes with wild sur- 
prise, and expired, clasping her hands in horror, as she 
saw the red light on her son’s soutane. 


THE END. 


NEW BOOKS BY THE BEST AUTHORS. 

FOR SALE BY ALL BOOKSELLERS, AND PUBLISHED BY 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, PHILADELPHIA. 

o ^ ♦ o » 

L’ASSOMMOIR. A Novel . By Emile Zola , author of “ The Rougon-Macquart 
Family,” “ Helene,” etc. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.00 in cloth. 

THE ROUGON-MACQUART FAMILY; or, LA FORTUNE DES ROUGON. By 

Emile Zola , author of “ L’Assommoir.” Price 75 cents in paper, or $1.25 in cloth. 

HELENE, A LOVE EPISODE ; or, UNE PAGE D’AMGDR. By Emile Zola , , 
author of “ L’Assommoir,” etc. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in cloth. 

THE ABBE’S TEMPTATION; or, LA FAUTE DE L’ABBE MOURET. By Emile 
Zola, author of “L’Assommoir.” Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in cloth. 

UNDER THE WILLOWS; or, THE THREE COUNTESSES. By Elizabeth Van 
Loon , author of “A Heart Twice Won,” “Shadow of Hampton Mead.” Cloth, $1.50. 

MARKOF, THE RUSSIAN VIOLINIST. A Russian Story. By Henry Greville , 
author of “ Dosia.” One large volume, cloth, price $1.50, or 75 cents in paper cover. 

MAJOR JONES’S COURTSHIP. Author’s New Edition. By Major Joseph Jones, 
of Pineviile, Georgia. With 21 Illustrations by Darley and Cary. Price 75 cents. 

A HEART TWICE WON; or, SECOND LOVE. A Love Story. By Mrs. Elizabeth 
Van Loon , author of “The Shadow of Hampton Mead.” Cloth, price $1.50. 

THE SHADOW OF HAMPTON MEAD. A Charming Story. By Mrs. Elizabeth 
Van Loon , author of “A Heart Twice Won.” Cloth, black and gold. Price $1.50. 

DOSIA. A Russian Story . By Henry Greville , author of “ Marrying Off a Daughter,” 
* Saveli’s Expiation,” and “ Gabrielle.” Price 75 cents in paper, or $1.25 in cloth. 

MAJOR JONES’S SCENES IN GEORGIA. With Full Page Illustrations, from 
Original Designs by Darley. Morocco cloth, gilt and black. Price $1.50. 

THE LAST ATHENIAN. By Victor Rydberg. This is one of the most remarkable 
books ever published. One volume, 12mo., 600 pages, cloth, price $1.75. 

MARRYING OFF A DAUGHTER. A Love Story. By Henry Greville, author of 
“ Dosia,” “ Saveli’s Expiation,” and “ Markof.” Price 75 cts. in paper, or $1.25 in cloth. 

PHILOMENE’S MARRIAGES. With Author’s Preface. By Henry Greville , 
author of “ Dosia.” Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in cloth. 

PRETTY LITTLE COUNTESS ZINA. By Henry Greville, author of “ Dosia,” 
“Saveli’s Expiation,” and “ Markof.” Price 75 cents in paper, or $1.25 in cloth. 

THE COUNT DE C AMORS. The Man of the Second Empire. By Octave Feu il let, 
author of “ The Amours of Phillippe.” Price 75 cents in paper, or $1.25 in cloth. 

THE SWAMP DOCTOR’S ADVENTURES IN THE SOUTH-WEST. With Fourteen 
Illustrations, from Designs by Darley. Morocco cloth, gilt and black. Price $1.50. 

COLONEL THORPE’S SCENES IN ARKANSAW. With Sixteen Illustrations, 
from Original Designs by Darley. Morocco cloth, gilt and black. Price $1.50. 

HIGH LIFE IN NEW YORK. By Jonathan Slick. Illustrated. Price $1.50. 

RANCY COTTEM’S COURTSHIP. By author “ Major Jones’s Courtship.” 50 cts. 

JARL’S DAUGHTER. By Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett. Paper, price 25 cents. 

LINDSAY’S LUCK. By Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett. Paper, price 25 cents. 

Above Books are for sale by all Booksellers and News Agents, or copies of any 
one or all of them, will be sent to any one , post-paid , on remitting price to the Publishers , 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa. 


NEW BOOKS BY THE BiSl AUTHORS. 


■4 ♦ ♦ ♦ » 

Price 50 Cents each in paper cover, or $1.00 each in cloth. 

4 -O ♦ O » 

EONNE-MARIE. A Love Story. By Henry Greville, author of “ Dosia,” “ Marrying 
Off a Daughter,” “ Saveli’s Expiation,” “ Markof,” and “ Gabrielle.” 

MISS MARGERY’S ROSES. A Charming Love Story. By Robert C. Meyers . 

D0URN0F. A Russian Story. By Henry Greville , author of “ Dosia,” “ Saveli’s 
Expiation,” “ Borne-Marie,” and “ Marrying Off' a Daughter.” 

“ THEO.” A Love Story. By Mrs. Burnett , author of “ Kathleen.” 

KATHLEEN. A Love Story. By Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett , author of “ Theo,” 
“ Pretty Polly Pemberton,” “ Miss Crespigny,” “A Quiet Life,” etc. 

MISS CRESPIGNY. A Love Story. By Mrs. Burnett , author of “ Theo.” 

SONIA. A Russian Love Story. By Henry Greville, author of “ Marrying Off a 
Daughter,” “ Dosia,” “ Markof,” etc. Translated by Mary Neal Sherwood . 

A QUIET LIFE. By Mrs. Burnett , author of “ Kathleen,” and “ Theo.” 

A FRIEND ; or, L’AMIE. By Henry Greville, author of “ Sonia,” “ Saveli’s Expia- 
tion,” “ Markof,” and “ Marrying Oft' a Daughter.” 

PRETTY POLLY PEMBERTON. A Love Story. By Mrs. Burnett. 

A WOMAN’S MISTAKE; or, JACQUES DE TREVANNES. A Charming Love 
Story. By Madame Ang'Cle Bussaud. Translated by Mary Neal Sherwood . 

SYBIL BROTHERTON. A Novel . By Mrs. Emma I). E. N. Southwortk . 

FATHER TOM AND THE POPE; or, A NIGHT AT THE VATICAN. With Illus- 
trations of the scenes that took place between the Pope and Father Tom. 

MADELEINE. A Love Story. By Jules Sandeau. Crowned by French Academy. 

SAVELI’S EXPIATION. By Henry Grtville, author of “ Dosia.” A dramatic and 
powerful novel of Russian life. Translated by Mary Neal Sherwood. 

TWO WAYS TO MATRIMONY ; or, IS IT LOVE ? or, FALSE PRIDE. 

GABRIELLE; or, THE HOUSE OF MAUREZE. Translated from the French of 
Henry Greville, author of “Saveli’s Expiation,” “ Markof,” “Sonia,” “Dosia.” 

STORY OF “ ELIZABETH.” By Miss Thackeray, daughter of W. M. Thackeray. 

THE DAYS OF MADAME POMPADOUR ; or, MADAME POMPADOUR’S GARTER. 

A Romance of the Reign of Louis XV. By Gabrielle L ^ St. Andre. 

CARMEN. By Prosper Merimee . From which opera of “ Carmen” was dramatized. 

THE MATCHMAKER. A Charming Novel. By Beatrice Reynolds. All the char- 
acters and scenes in it, have all the freshness of life, and vitality of truth. 

THE RED HILL TRAGEDY. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth. 

THE AMOURS OF PHILLIPPE. “ Phillippe’s Love Affairs.” By Feuillet. 
FANCHON, THE CRICKET ; or, LA PETITE FADETTE. By George Sand. 
BESSIE’S SIX LOVERS. A Charming Love Story, of the purest and best kind. 
THAT GIRL OF MINE. A Love Story. By the author of “ That Lover of Mme.” 
THAT LOVER OF MINE. By the author of 11 That Girl of Mine.” 

Above are 50 Cents eacii in paper cover, or $1,00 each in cloth. 

Above Books are for sale by all Booksellers and Neivs Agents , or copies of any one 
or all of them y will be sent to any one , post-paid , on remitting price to the publisher » f 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa. 



or GOOD NOVELS, ARE THE BEST, LARGEST, 
AND CHEAPEST BOOKS IN THE WORLD. 

Price One Dollar Each , in Cloth , Black and Goldi 

A WOMAN'S THOUGHTS ABOUT WOMEN. By Miss Mulock. 
THE LOVER'S TRIALS. By Mrs. Mary A. Denison. 

THE PRIDE OF LIFE. A Love Story. By Lady Jane Scott. 

THE BEAUTIFUL WIDOW. By Mrs. Percy B. Sheik y. 

CORA BELMONT ; or, The Sincere Lover. 

TWO WAYS TO MATRIMONY ; or, Is It Love, or, False Pride 7 
LOST SIR MASSINGBERDi Janies Payn’s Best Book. 

THE OLYFFARDS OF CLYFFE. By James Payn. 

MY SON’S WIFE. By the Author of “Caste.” 

THE RIVAL BELLES; or, Life in Washington. By J. B. Jones. 
THE REFUGEE. By the author of “ Omoo,” “ Typee,” etc. 

OUT OF THE DEPTHS. The Story of a Woman’s Life. 

THE MATCHMAKER. A Society Novel. By Beatrice Reynolds. 
AUNT PATTY’S SCRAP BAG. By Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz. 
THE STORY OF “ELIZABETH.” By Miss Thackeray. 
FLIRTATIONS IN FASHIONABLE LIFE. By Catharine Sinclair 
THE HEIRESS IN THE FAMILY. By Mrs. Mackenzie Daniels. 
LOVE AND DUTY. A Love Story. By Mrs. Kubback. 

THE COQUETTE; or, The Life and Letters of Eliza Wharton. 
SELF-LOVE. A Book for Young Ladies and for Women. 

THE DEVOTED BRIDE. By St. George Tucker, of Virginia. 

THE MAN OF THE WORLD. By William North. 

THE RECTOR’S WIFE ; or, The Valley of a Hundred Fires. 

THE QUEEN’S FAVORITE ; or, The Price of a Crown. 

COUNTRY QUARTERS. By the Countess of Blessington. 

THE CAVALIER. A Novel. By G. P. R. James. 

SARATOGA ! AND THE FAMOUS SPRINGS. A Love Story. 
COLLEY CIBBER’S LIFE OF EDWIN FORREST, with Portrait. 
WOMAN'S WRONG. A Book for Women. By Mrs. Eiloart. 
HAREM LIFE IN EGYPT AND CONSTANTINOPLE. 

THE OLD PATROON ; or, The Great Van Broek Property. 

THE MACDERMOTS OF BALLYCLORAN. By Anthony Trollope. 
A LONELY LIFE. TREASON AT HOME. PANOLA! 

pg?~For sale by all Booksellers and News Agents, and published by 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia. 


Mrs. Southworth’s Works. 

EACH IS IN ONE LARGE DUODECIMO VOLUME, MOROCCO CLOTH, GILT BACK, PRICE $1.75 EACH. 


All or any will be sent free of postage, everywhere, to all, on receipt of remittances. 

ISHMAEL; or, IN THE DEPTHS. (Being “Self-Made; or, Out of Depths.”) 
SELF-RAISED; or, From the Depths. The Sequel to “Ishmael.” 

THE PHANTOM WEDDING; or, the Fall of the House of Flint. 

THE “MOTHER-IN-LAW;” or, MARRIED IN HASTE. 

THE MISSING BRIDE; or, MIRIAM, THE AVENGER. 

VICTOR’S TRIUMPH. The Sequel to “A Beautiful Fiend.” 

A BEAUTIFUL FIEND; or, THROUGH THE FIRE. 

THE LADY OF THE ISLE; or, THE ISLAND PRINCESS. 

FAIR PLAY; or, BRITOMARTE, THE MAN-HATER. 

HOW HE WON HER. The Sequel to “Fair Play.” 

THE CHANGED BRIDES ; or, Winning Her Way. 

THE BRIDE’S FATE. The Sequel to “The Changed Brides” 
CRUEL AS THE GRAVE; or, Hallow Eve Mystery. 

TRIED FOR HER LIFE. The Sequel to “ Cruel as the Grave.” 

THE CHRISTMAS GUEST; or, The Crime and the Curse. 

THE LOST HEIR OF LINLITHGOW; or, The Brothers. 

A NOBLE LORD. The Sequel to “The Lost Heir of Linlithgow.” 
THE FAMILY DOOM; or, THE SIN OF A COUNTESS. 

THE MAIDEN WIDOW. The Sequel to “The Family Doom.” 

THE GIPSY’S PROPHECY; or, The Bride of an Evening. 

THE FORTUNE SEEKER; or, Astrea, The Bridal Day. 

THE THREE BEAUTIES ; or, SHANNONDALE. 

FALLEN PRIDE; or, THE MOUNTAIN GIRL’S LOVE. 

THE DISCARDED DAUGHTER; or, The Children of the Isle. 

THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS; or, HICKORY HALL. 

THE TWO SISTERS; or, Virginia and Magdalene. 

THE FATAL MARRIAGE; or, ORVILLE DEVILLE. 

INDIA; or, THE PEARL OF PEARL RIVER. THE CURSE OF CLIFTOfy 
THE WIDOW’S SON; or, LEFT ALONE. 

THE MYSTERY OF DARK HOLLOW. 

ALLWORTH ABBEY; or, EUDORA, 

THE BRIDAL EVE; or, ROSE ELMER. 

VIVIA ; or, THE SECRET OF POWER. 

THE HAUNTED HOMESTEAD. 

BRIDE OF LLEWELLYN. THE DESERTED WIFE. RETRIBUTION 

70T* Mrs. Southworth’ s works will be found for sale by all Booksellers. 

70$** Copies of any one , or more of 3Irs. Southworth’s works, will be sent to any 
•place, at once, per mail, post-paid, on remitting price of ones wanted to the Publishers^ 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelpliia, Pa. 


THE WIFE’S VICTORV 
THE SPECTRE LOVER. 

THE ARTIST’S LOVE. 
THE FATAL SECRET. 

LOVE’S LABOR WON. 
THE LOST HEIRESS. 


ALEXANDER DUMAS’ GREAT WORKS, 

All or any will be sent free of postage, everywhere, to all, on receipt of remittances. 

The Count of* Monte-Cristo. With elegant illustrations, and portraits of Edmond Dante% 
Mercedes, and Fernand. Price $1.50 in paper cover; or $1.75 in cloth. 

Edmond Dantes. A Sequel to the “Count of Monte-Cristo.” In one large octavo volume. 
Price 75 cents in paper cover, or a liner edition, bound in cioth, for $1.75. 

Tlie Countess of Monte-Cristo. With a portrait of the “Countess of Monte-Cristo ” oa 
the cover. One large octavo volume, paper cover, price $1.00; or bound in cloth, for $1.75. 

The Three Guardsmen; or. The Three Mousquetaires. In one large octavo 
volume. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or a finer edition in cloth, for $1.75. 

Twenty Years After. A Sequel to the “Three Guardsmen.” In one large octavo volume. 
Price 75 cents in paper cover, or a finer edition, in one volume, cloth, for $1.75. 

Bragelonne; the Son of Athos. Being the continuation of “ Twenty Years After.” In 
one large octavo volume. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or a finer edition in cloth, for $1.75. 

The Iron Mask. Being the continuation of the “Three Guardsmen,” “Twenty Years After,” 
and “ Bragelonne.” In one large octavo volume. Paper cover, $1.00 ; or in cloth, for $1.75. 

TiOuise La Valliere; or, the Second Series of the “Iron Mask,” and end of “The Three 
Guardsmen ” series. In one large octavo volume. Paper cover, $1.00; or in cloth, for $1.75. 

The Memoirs of a Physician ; or, The Secret History of the Court of Louis the Fifteenth. 
Beautifully Illustrated. In one large octavo volume. Paper cover, $1.00; or in cloth, for $1.75. 

The Queen’s Necklace; or, The “Second Series of the Memoirs of a Physician.” In one 
large octavo volume. Paper cover, price $1.00 ; or in one volume, cloth, for $1.75. 

Six Years Eater; or, Taking of the Bastile. Being the “Third Series of the Memoirs of a 
Physician.” In one large octavo volume. Paper cover, $1.00 ; or in cloth, for $1.75. 

Countess of Charny ; or, The Fall of the French Monarchy. Being the “Fourth Series of 
the Memoirs of a Physician.” In one largo octavo volume. Paper cover, $1.00; or in cloth, for $1.75. 

Andree de Taverney. Being the “ Fifth Series of the Memoirs of a Physician.” In one 
iarge octavo volume. Paper cover, price $1.00; or in one volume, cloth, for $1.75. 

The Chevalier; or, the “Sixth Series and final conclusion of the Memoirs of a Physician 
Series.” In one large octavo volume. Price $1.00 in paper cover ; or $1.75 in cloth. 

Joseph Balsamo. Dumas’ greatest work, from which the play of “Joseph Balsamo” was 
dramatized, by his son, Alexander Dumas, Jr. Price $1.00 in paper cover, or $1.50 in cloth. 

The Conscript; or. The Days of the First Napoleon. An Historical Novel. In 
one large duodecimo volume. Price $1.50 in paper cover; or in cloth, for $1.75. 

Camille; or. The Fate of a Coquette. (“ La Dame aux Camelias.”) This is the only 
true and complete translation of “ Camille,” and it is from this translation that the Play of “Camille,” 
and the Opera of “La Traviata” was adapted to the Stage. Paper cover, price $1.50; or in cloth, $1.75, 

Love and Eiberty; or, A Man of the People, (ltene Besson.) A Thrilling Story 
of the French Revolution of 1792-93. In one large duodecimo volume, paper cover, $1.50 ; cloth, $1.75. 

The Adventures of a Marquis. Paper cover, $1.00; or in one volume, cloth, for $1.75. 

The Forty-Five Guardsmen. Paper cover, $1.00; or in one volume, cloth, for $1.75. 

Diana of Meridor. Paper cover, $1.00; or in one volume, cloth, for $1.75. 

The Iron Hand. Price $1.00 in paper cover, or in one volume, cloth, for $1.75. 

Isabel of Bavaria, Queen of France. In one large octavo volume. Price 75 cents. 

Annette; or. The Eady of the Pearls. A Companion to “Camille.” Price 75 cent* 

The Fallen Angel. A Story of Love and Life in Paris. One large volume. Price 75 center 

The Mohicans of Paris. In one large octavo volume. Price 75 cents. 

The Horrors of Paris. In one large octavo volume. Price 75 cents. 

The Man with Five Wives. In one large octavo volume. Price 75 cents. 

^ Sketches in France. In one large octavo volume. Price 75 cents. 

Felinade Chambure; or. The Female Fiend. Price 75 cents. 

The Twin Eieutenants; or, The Soldier’s Bride. Price 75 cents. 

Madame de Chamblay. In one large octavo volume. Price 50 cents. 

The Black Tulip. In one large octavo volume. Price 50 cents. 

The Corsican Brothers. In one large octavo volume. Price 50 cents. 

George; or. The Planter of the Isle of France. Price 50 cents. 

The Count of Moret. In one large octavo volume. Price 50 cents. 

The Marriage Verdict. In one large octavo volume. Price 50 cents. 

Buried Alive. In one large octavo volume. Price 25 cents. 

Above books are for sale by all Booksellers and News Agents , or copies of an$ 
9ne or more , will be sent to any one, post-paid, on remitting price to the Publishers , 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa. 


GEORGE W. M. REYNOLDS’ WORKS. 

NEW AND BEAUTIFUL EDITIONS, JUST READY. 

Each Work is complete and unabridged, in one large volume. 

All or any will be sent free of postage, everywhere, to all, on receipt of remittances. 

Mysteries of the Court of London; being THE MYSTERIES OF THE COURT OF 

GEOROE THE THIRD, with the Life and Times of the PRINCE OF WALES, afterward GEORGE 
THE FOURTH. Complete in one large volume, bound in cloth, price $1.75 ; or in paper cover, price $1.00. 

Rose Coster ; or, the “ Second Series of the Mysteries of the Court of London.” Complete in on® 
large volume, bound in cloth, price $1.75; or in paper cover, price $1.50. 

Caroline of Brunswick; or, the “Third Series of the Mysteries of the Court of London.’*. 
Complete in one large volume, bound in cloth, price $1.75; or in paper cover, price $1.00. 

Vcnctia T’relawney ; being the “ Fourth Series < r final conclusion of the Mysteries of the Court 
of London.” Complete in one large volume, bound in cloth, price $1.75; or in paper cover, price $1.00. 

Lord Saxondnle; or, The Court of Queen Victoria. Complete in one large volume, bound in 
cloth, price $1.75 ; or in paper cover, price $1.00. 

t’oiiut Ctfiristoval. The “Sequel to Lord Saxondale.” Complete in one large volume, bound 
in cloth, price $1.75 ; or in paper cover, price $1.00. 

Rosa Lambert; or, The Memoirs of an Unfortunate Woman. Complete in one large volume, 
bound in cloth, price $1.75 ; or in paper cover, price $1.00. 

Joseph Wilmot; hr, The Memoirs of a Man Servant. Complete in one large volume, bound in 
cloth, price $1.75; or in paper cover, price $1.00. 

The Ranker’s Daughter. A Sequel to “Joseph Wilmot.” Complete in one large volume, 
bound in cloth, price $1.75; or in paper cover, price $1.00. 

The Rye-House Riot; or, Ruth, the Conspirator’s Daughter. Complete in one large volume, 
bound in cloth, price $1.75; or in paper cover, price $1.00. 

The Nceromaneer. Being the Mysteries of the Court of Henry the Eighth. Complete in. 
Due large volume, bound in cloth, price $1.75; or in paper cover, price $1.00. 

Mary Price; or, The Adventures of a Servant Maid. One vol., cloth, price $1.75 ; or in paper. $1 0Q 
Eustace Quentin. A “Sequel to Mary Price.” One vol., cloth, price $1.75; or in paper, $1.0(1 
The Mysteries of the Court of Naples. Price $1.00 in paper cover; or $1.75 in do'U 
Kenneth. A Romance of the Highlands. One vol., cloth, price $1.75 ; or in paper cover, $1.00. 
Wallace: the Hero of Scotland. Illustrated with 38 plates. Paper, $1.(0; cloth, $1.75 
The Gipsy Clssef. Beautifully Illustrated. Price $1.00 in paper cover, or $1.75 in cloth. 
Robert Bruce; the Hero Kins’ of Scot Sand. Illustrated. Paper, $1.00; cloth, $1.75. 
The Opera Dancer ; or, The Mysteries of London Life. Price 75 cents. 

Isabella Vincent; or, Tim Two Orphans. One large octavo volume. Price 75 cents. 
Vivian Bertram ; or, A Wife’s Honor. A Sequel to “Isabella Yineent.” Price 75 cents. 
The Countess of JLascelles. The Continuation to “"Vivian Bertram.” Price 75 cents. 
Duke of Marchmont. Being the Conclusion of “ The Countess of Lascelles.” Price 75 cent* 
The Child of Waterloo; or. The Horrors of the Tattle Field. Price 75 cents. 

Pickwick Abroad. A Companion to tho “Pickwick Papers,” by “ Boz.” Price 75 cents. 
The Countess and the Pag?. One large octavo volume. Piice 75 cents. 

Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots. Com; Tote in one large octavo volume. Price 76 cents. 
The Soldier's Wife. Illustrated. One largo octavo volume. Price 76 cents. 

May Middleton ; or, The History of a Fortune. In one large octavo volume. Price 75 cental 
The Loves of the Harem. One large octavo volume. Price 75 cents. 

Rlleu Percy; or, The Memoirs of an Actress. One large octavo volume. Price 76 cents. 

The Discarded Queen. One large octavo volume. Price 75 ceus. 

Evelyn ; or, Beauty and Pleasure. One large octavo v. lume. Price 75 cents. 

The Massacre of Glencoe. One large octavo volume. Price 75 cents. 

The Parricide; or, Youth’s Career in Crime. Beautifully Illustrated. Price 75 cents. 
ili;>rina; or. The Secrets of a Picture Gallery. One volume. Trice 50 cents. 
The Ruined Gamester. With Illustrations. One large octavo volume. Price 50 cento. 
Life in Paras. Handsomely illustrated. One large octavo volume. Price 50 cents, 
flitrord and the Actress. One large octavo volume. Price 50 cents. 

Edgar Mosatrose. One large octavo volume. Price 50 cents. 

JRQ'" The above works will be found for sale by all Booksellers and News Agents . 

7/i^R Copies of any one , or more, or all of Reynolds ’ works , will be sent to any plac\ 
ut once, post-paid, on remitting price of ones wanted to ike Rub Ushers, 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa. 


Three Mew American Novels. 


A HEART TWICE WON 

OR, 

SECOND X*OVE. 

BY MRS. ELISABETH VAN LOON. 

Author of “ Under the Willows; or. The Three Countesses,” 
“ The Shadow of Hampton Mead,” etc. 

Bound in Morocco Cloth, Gilt and Black. Price $1.50. 





OR, 


THE THREE COUNTESSES. 

BY MRS. ELIZABETH VAN LOON. 

Author of “A Heart Twice Won.” 

Bound in Morocco Cloth, Gilt and Black. Price $1.50. 





A STORY OF THREE FAMILIES. 

BY MBS. ELIZABETH VAN LOON. 

Author of “A Heart Twice Won.” 

Bound in Morocco Cloth, Gilt and Black. Price $1.50. 


Above Books are for sale by all Booksellers and News Agents, or copies will hi 
tent to any place , at once, per mail, post-paid, on remitting price to the publishers, 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa. 





By author ©£ “ X/Assomsnoir.” 


r \ 



A LO¥E EPISODE. 

(UNE PAGE D’AMOUR.) 

BY EMILE SOLA. 

AUTHOR OF “ L'ASSOMMOIR/' “ THE ROUGON-MACQUART FAMILY/* OR, 
“LA FORTUNE DES ROUGON/' “THE ABBE’S TEMPTATION/' OR, 

“LA FAUTE BE L’ABBE MOURET/' ETC. 


“ Emile Zola ” is the greatest author in France at the present day. His novel, 
“ L’ASSOMMOIR,” published by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia, has already 
had a sale in France of over One Hundred Thousand Copies, and “ HELENE; OR, Une 
Page D* Amour,” which is extremely interesting — indeed, exciting — lately issued 
there, has already passed into its forty-eighth edition. One of the most noted liter- 
ary editors in New York wrote as follows to the translator: “ I have just finished 
reading, and return to you by mail, your advance copy of ‘ Zola’s’ extraordinary 
book, ‘Helene; or, Une Page D’ Amour.’ It is admirably written, and is full of 
powerful and life-like delineations of character, and in this respect surpasses any of 
his preceding publications, and you, \Vith your skill, will have no difficulty in ren- 
dering it into pure English. By all means translate it at once, and your publishers 
will have the honor of introducing the cleverest book as well as the greatest writer 
of the day to the American public. ” And in a letter received by the translator from 
Dne of the most celebrated critics in Paris, he says: “Why c!o you not translate 
‘Zola’s’ new book, ‘Helene; or, Une Page D’ Amour’ at once? It is the great 
sensation over here. The book is admirably written by a truly great artist, with a 
powerful realism and absorbing interest, and would be a splendid card for you to play, 
and would prove to be a great success in America. The characters and scenes of the 
story are well conceived and well executed, and it is impossible to deny the author’s 
great skill, for every reader will acknowledge ‘Zola’s’ great power in ‘KelEne.’ 
Besides the story, there are many pages devoted to rapturous descriptions of Paris at 
sunrise, at noonday, at sunset, and at night. Zola has made his name famous, and he 
will find plenty of readers for all he writes. His name alone will make any book sell.” 

Paper Cover, 75 Cents. Morocco Cloth, Gilt and Black, $l.25 e 

(g^TThe above book is 'printed on tinted paper , and is issued in square 12 mo. form, 
in uniform, shape with “ L* Assommoir ,” u The Rougon-Macquart Family ; or, La For- 
tune Des Rougon ,” u The Abbe's Temptation ; or, La Faule De L' Abbe Mouretf and 
other works of Emile Zola's published by us, and is for sale by all Booksellers, or copies 
will he sent to any one, at once, post-paid, on remitting price to the Publishers , 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 

300 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa. 


Emile Sola’s Great Works! 



(LA FAUTE DE L’ABBE MOURET.) 

A. LOYE STORY. 


sir ssm; J 3L* is 

AUTHOR OF “ L’ASSOMMOIB,” “ HfiLftNE,” ETC., ETC. 

TEMSLATED FEQM THE FEENCH BY J0H2J STIELING. 

,{ * The Abba’s Temptation/ ” by Emile Zola, -writes one of the most noted literart 
editors in New York, to John Stirling, the translator, “is the sweetest love story 1 
ever read, and is a great book, for there is much in the work that is lovely and pathetic. 
It is a work of marvellous ability, not immoral in any sense, while it teaches a lesson. 
The Abbe Mouret, brother of Helene, who serves to point the moral in Zola’s previous 
work, entitled, ‘ Helene, a Love Episode/ is the Cure of a poor village whose inhabitants 
are steeped in all the degradation of peasant life. In the Abb6 is developed the devo- 
tional spirit of his mother. Innocent of all guile, uncomfortable and blushing at the 
confessions of his female parishioners; devoted to the worship of the Virgin Mary, he, 
with his half-witted sister, lives a life of purity and happiness, until his mind is 
unbalanced by the suggestions of a zealot, and by the constant strain on both mind 
and body, caused by his incessant vigils. To save his life, his uncle, Dr. Pascal, takes 
him to a deserted villa, and confides him to the care of a half-wild niece of the man 
in charge. Gradually his reason is restored; and with returning reason comes health, 
strength and love. His fault no one can condemn but himself. In his own hard, 
unflinching style, Zola dissects the vices of the peasantry, the salacious nature of the 
zealot, and the animal instincts of his sister ; but when he depicts the innocent love 
and purity of the unhappy Abbe, as he wanders through the tangled paths of Paradou, 
L - nature seems altogether changed, and one can scarce believe that he, who wrote 
* UAssommoir/ can be the author of this sweet, pathetic, and charming love story.” 

Paper Cover, 75 Cents. Morocco Cloth, Gilt and Black, $1.25. 


EMILE ZOLA’S OTHER WORKS. 

L’ASSOMMOIR. By Emile Zola, author of “ The Abbe’s Temptation,” “Hel&ne,** 
*te. Price 75 cents in paper, or $1.00 in cloth. 

HELENE; or, UNE PAGE D’ AMOUR. By Anile Zola, author of “ L’Assommoir,” 
* The Abbe’ 3 Temptation,” etc. Price 75 cents in paper, or $1.25 in cloth. 

— — 

Above Books are for sale by all Booksellers and News Agents, or copies will b* 
tent to any place , at once, per mail , post-paid, on remitting price to the Publishers , 

71 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa. 



By author of 44 L’Assommoir.” 


The Rougon 



Family, 


(LA FORTUNE DES ROUGON.) 

BIT EMILE SOLA. 

AUTHOR OF “L’ASSOMMOIR,” “ HELENE," OR, “UNE PAGE D’AMOUR,” “ THE 
ABBE’S TEMPTATION,” OR, “ LA FAUTE DE L’ABBE MOURET,” ETC. 


Mead what the New York Daily Times says of it: 

“ Tiie Rougon-Macquart Family,” by Emile Zola , is a most striking book, and 
infinitely superior to “ L’Assommoir.” The description of Plassans, with its Roman 

f ates, its three well-marked divisions of society, its obscure intrigues among Clericals, 
legitimists, bourgeois , and peasants, is worthy of Balzac — a writer, indeed, of whom 
one is often reminded by Zola, and which, in some points, he surpasses. The love 
of Silvtre and Miette has a note of charm that Balzac never struck. The first friendship 
between the children is as delightfully rendered as if Zola had been inspired by the 
old tellers of love-tales who invented the story of Pyramus and Thisbe. Like these 
lovers, Silvere and Miette are separated by a wall, but they are more fortunate in hav- 
ing a smooth well under the wall in which to see each other’s faces. Their late love- 
making is that of Daphnis and Chloe , a story which has always been the greatest 
favorite among Frenchmen, and is found ennobled and purified in the celebrated story 
of Paul and Virginia. Zola’s lovers stand midway between the Greek and the West 
Indian version, being passionate, but not improper in the English translation, what- 
ever it may be in the French original. The tragedy of the book consists in the deaths 
of Silv'bre and Miette, victims of the echo in the provinces of the coup d’etat of 
Napoleon III. To judge from “The Rougon-Macquart Family,” Zola is in poli- 
tics more an aristocrat than a democrat, and more of a republican than an aristocrat. 
He has the true French contempt for the bourgeoisie, and draws a ludicrous picture 
of the burghers of Plassans listening to the sounds of revolution in and about their 
town when the news comes that Napoleon has stolen the throne. The only calm person 
is the old Marquis de Carnavant, and the only energetic person, Madame Rougon . 
By a refinement of satire Zola makes the coup d’etat which raises Rougon to the 
Mayor’s chair and causes all Plassans to look upon him as a hero and patriot to 
emanate from, and entirely run at the will of, Madame Rougon. She remains in the 
background, but all the movements of her husband are controlled by her. This is 
the book for all to read, in order to understand Zola’s position, for it is full of genius. 


Paper Cover, 75 Cents. Morocco Cloth, Gilt and Black, $1.25. 


The “ Rougon-Macquart Family ” is printed on tinted paper , and is issued in 
square \2mo. form, in uniform shape with “E Assommoir,” u Helene; a Imre Episode ,” 
or, “ line Page d' Amour,” “The Abbe! s Temptation ; ” or, “La Faute I)c EAbbe Mouret,” 
u The Conquest of Plassans ;” a Tale of Provincial Life; “The Markets of Paris,” 
and other ivorks of Emile Zoleds published by us, and is for sale by all Booksellers , or 
copies will be sent to any one , at once, post-paid, on remitting price to the Publishers , 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 

306 Chestnut Street* 1 Tula delpMa, Pa. 



Emile Zola’s Greatest Work! 

OVER 100,000 COPIES SOLD IN FRANCE. 

L’ASSOMMOIR! 

^ NOVEL. 

BIT EMILE SO X-A. 

AUTHOR OF “THE ABBE’S TEMPTATION,” “HELENE,” ETC. 

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BY JOHN STIRLING. 


Read what T>r. G. X>. Cox, the "Literary Editor of The Philadelphia ChroniCle- 
Meraldf says of “IS Assommoir f 9 Editorially, in that Paper. 

“L’Assommoir,” a Novel, by Emile Zola, translated from the French by John Stir* 
(ing, is published this day by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia, and is one of 
the most wonderful novels ever printed, and for intensity of realism, has no equal, 
having already attained a sale in France of over One Hundred Thousand Copies. 
“The publication in English of this, the greatest novel of the greatest French realistic 
novelist, is, in all senses, an experiment. The ‘Assommoir 7 probes to the uttermost 
depths the springs of degradation and depravity among the lower orders of the Parisian 
population, and the picture presented has not a single touch of varnish. There it is in 
all its hideous and sickening reality, even the coarse local slang is reproduced in such 
boldness as to make the reader start, and Zola stops at nothing. He takes his subject 
as he finds it, and reproduces it with the most scrupulous fidelity. Such a novel as 
the ‘Assommoir , 7 and such a novelist as ‘Zola , 7 are new to the American public, 
and Mr. Stirling, at the instance of his publishers, has undertaken the herculean task 
of purifying the ‘Assommoir , 7 that our readers may get the gist of the great book 
and yet not be shocked. It is but just to say that he has done his work with much 
skill and judgment. Mr. Stirling gives the story, its animus and its vivid local color- 
ing, but he does so in a refined way, and, strange to say, he has not weakened the 
‘Assommoir 7 in the least by so doing. He shows Gervaise, her struggles to be an 
honest woman, her troubles, and her final fall into the slough of sin, ending in a 
pauper’s death. He shows Coupeau, at first a good citizen and an estimable man, then 
passing through all the stages of drunkenness to his end by delirium tremens in the 
hospital. The smooth-tongued Lantier, Nana, who took naturally to sin, and Goujet, 
the manly and virtuous blacksmith, are all there. We would advise ali who cannot 
read the ‘Assommoir 7 in the original French to read Mr. Stirling’s version of it* 
They will find the book a curiosity, to say the least of it . 77 

Paper Cover, 75 Cents. IVlorocco Cloth, Gilt and Black, $1.00. 


Above Books are for sale by all Booksellers and News Agents , or copies will bt 
io any place , at once, per mail , post-paid, on remitting price to the Publishers , 


T. B. PETEKSOX & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa. 


Major Jones’s Courtship. 

WITH 21 FULL PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS. 

BY MAJOR JOSEPH JONES. 


(OF PINEVIELE, GEORGIA.) 



“By this time the galls was holt of my coat-tail, hollerin as hard as they could.’* 


ONE VOLUME, SQUARE 12mo., PAPER COVER. PRICE 75 CENTS. 

I®* 1 Major Jones’s Courtship is for sale by all Booksellers and News Agents , or copies oj 
it will be sent at once, post-paid , on remitting Seventy-five cents in a letter to the publishers, 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa. 


Greville’s New Russian Novel. 



THE RUSSIAN VIOLINIST. 

BY HUEY 6EEVZLLE. 

AUTHOR OF “DOSIA,” “ MARRYING OFF A DAUGHTER,” “SAVELI’S EXPIATION,” 
“.BONNE-MARIE,” “ PHILOMENE’S MARRIAGES,” “SONIA,” “A FRIEND,” 

“ DOURNOF,” “ GABRIELLE,” “ PRETTY LITTLE COUNTESS ZINA.” 

TRANSLATED IN PARIS, BY MISS HELEN STANLEY. 

4t Mark of" is a musical novel , and an art study , full of beautiful prose and true poetry , and such 
&s could be written only by an artist and a genius. The character-dr awing is marvellous in breadth 
and analyzaiion, and gives proof of rare artistic skill, while the most delicious fancies , expressed in 
graceful, poetical and vigorous language , render the author' s style incomparably charming. I know 
of no work , nor can 1 remember any one which has pleased me so much, b)th in its ideas and their 
expression , in its plots and development, in its brilliancy and real value, as “ Markof." The 
English version retains the strong, clear style of the French with commendable fidelity. There are 
O, few letters in the novel which are unique , and their style is admirably preserved in the transla- 
tion. — Boston Globe. 

One Large Volume, Paper Cover, 75 Cents. Cloth, Gilt and Black, $1.50. 

HENRY GRiviLlE’S OTHER NOVELS. 

D0URN0F. A Russian Novel. By Henry Greville, author of “ Saveli’s Expia- 
tion,” “Dosia, 33 “Sonia,” etc. Price 50 cents in paper, or $1.00 in cloth. 

BONNE-MARIE. A Tale of Normandy and Paris. By Henry Greville , author of 
“Saveli’s Expiation” and “ Dosia.’ 3 Price 50 cents in paper, or $1.00 in cloth. 

DOSIA. By Henry GrZville , author of “Saveli’s Expiation,” “Marrying Off a 
Daughter,” “ Sonia,” and “ Oabrielle.” Price 75 cents in paper, or $1.25 in cloth. 

PHILOMIINE’S MARRIAGES. By Henry Greville , author of “ Dosia ” “Saveli’s 
Expiation,” “Sonia,” and “ Oabrielle.” Price 75 cents in paper, or $1.25 in cloth. 

PRETTY LITTLE COTJNTESS ZINA. By Henry Greville , author of “ Dosia, 3 * 
“Saveli’s Expiation, 33 and “Oabrielle.” Price 75 cents in paper, or $1.25 in cloth. 

MARRYING OFF A DAUGHTER. By Henry Greville , author of “ Dosia/ 3 “ Save- 
li’s Expiation, 33 “ Sonia,” and “ Oabrielle.” Price 75 cents in paper, or $1.25 in cloth. 

SAVELI’S EXPIATION. By Henry Greville . . A dramatic and powerful novel of 
Russian life, and a pure, pathetic love story. Price 50 cts. in paper, or $1.00 in cloth. 

SONIA. A Russian Story. By Henry Greville , author of “ Saveli’s Expiation,” 
“ Dosia,” and “ Marrying Off a Daughter.” Price 50 cents in paper, or $1.00 in cloth. 

A FRIEND ; or, L’AMI. By Henry Greville, author of “ Saveli’s Expiation,” 
“ Dosia,” and “ Marrying Off a Daughter. 33 Price 50 cents in paper, or $1.00 in cloth. 

GABRIELLE; or, THE HOUSE OF MAUREZE. By Henry Greville , author of 
* Dosia,” “ A Friend, 33 “ Saveli’s Expiation.” Price 50 cts. in paper, or $1.00 in cloth. 


Books are for sale by all Booksellers and News Agents , or copies will be 
9 cnt to any place , at once , per mail , post-paid , on remitting price to the Publishers , 

T, B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, PIiiladelpMa, Pa. 


r 

Emile Zola’s Mew Books. 

. ■ 

The Greatest Novels Ever Printed. 


L’ASSOMMOIR. By Emile Zola , author of “The Conquest of 
Plassans,” “The Markets of Paris,” “ The Rougon-Macquart 
Family,” “Helene,” “The Abbe’s Temptation,” etc., etc. 
“ LAssommoir ” is the most Popular Novel ever published. 
It has already attained a sale in Paris of over One Hundred 
Thousand Copies. Complete in one large square duodecimo 
volume, price 75 cents in paper cover, or One Dollar in 
Morocco Cloth, Black and Gold. 

THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS; or, LA CONQUETE 
DE PLASSANS. A Tale of Provincial Life. By Emile 
Zola. One large square duodecimo volume, price 75 cents in 
paper cover, or $1.25 in Morocco Cloth, Black and Gold. 

THE MARKETS OF PARIS; or, LE VENTRE DE 

PARIS. By Emile Zola , author of “ LAssommoir.” One 
large square duodecimo volume, price 75 cents in paper 
cover, or $1.25 in Morocco Cloth, Black and Gold. 

THE ROUGON-MACQUART FAMILY; or, LA FOR- 
TUNE DES ROUGON. By Emile Zola , author of 
“ LAssommoir.” One large volume, price 75 cents in paper 
cover, or $1.25 in Morocco Cloth, Black and Gold. 

HELENE; A LOVE EPISODE; or, UNE PAGE 
D’AMOUR. By Emile Zola, author of “LAssommoir.” 
One large square duodecimo volume, price 75 cents in paper 
cover, or $1.25 in Morocco Cloth, Black and Gold. 

THE ABBE’S TEMPTATION; or, LA FAUTE DE 
L’ABBE MOURET. By Emile Zola , author of “ LAssom- 
moir.” One large square duodecimo volume, price 75 cents 
in paper cover, or $1.25 in Morocco Cloth, Black and Gold. 

Above Books are for sale by all Booksellers and News Agents , or copies of any 

one , or all of them , will be sent to any one , to any place, at once, per return of mail, post - 

paid, on remitting the price of the ones wanted, to the Publishers , 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 

306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa* 


**It is worth double its price.” — Ottawa, ( Canada). Advertiser. 


^CHEAPEST J^JSTJD BESTIR 



•^FSJLL-SI^E PAPER PATTERNS!*^* 


A Supplement will be given in every number for 1879, containing a full.size pattern sheet for a 
tody's, or child's dress. Every subscriber will receive, during the year, twelve of these patterns, so that these 
alone will be worth more than the subscription price. Great improvements will also be made in other re * 
J \pectsd£$. 


“Peterson’s Magazine” contains, every year, 1000 pages, 14 steel plates. 12 colored Berlin patterns, 
12 mammoth colored fashion plates, 24 pages of music, and about 900 wood cuts. Its principal embel- 
lishments are 


SUPERB STEEL ENGRAVINGS! 


Its immense circulation enables its proprietor to spend more on embellishments, stories, kc. than 
any other. It gives mare for the money , and combines more merits, than any in the world. Its 



Are the best published anywhere. All the most popular writers are employed to write originally f of 
“ Peterson." In 1879, in addition to the usual quantity of short stories, FIVE ORIGINAL COPYRIGHT 
NOVELETTES will be given, by Ann S. Stephens, Frank Lee Benedict, Frances Hodgson Burnett, 
Jane G. Austin, and that unrivalled humorist, the author of “ Josiah Allen’s Wife.” 






Ahead of all others. These plates are engraved on steel, twice the usual size, and are unequalled for 
beauty. They will be superbly colored. Also, Household and other receipts; articles on “Wax-Work 
Flowers,” “Management of Infants;” in short everything interesting to ladies. 

N. B. — As the publishers now prepay the postage to all mail subscribers , “ Peterson ” is cheaper than 
ever; in fact is the cheapest in the world 


TERMS (Always in Advance) $2.00 A YEAR. 

, prices to cx»mraL-» 


2 

Copies 

for 

$3.50 

3 


ii 

4.50 

4 

Copies 

for 

$650 

6 


ii 

9.00 

5 

Copies 

for 

$8.00 

T 


4i 

10.50 


Specimens sent gratis if written for., 


( With a copy of the premium picture (24 x 20) “ Christ Blessing 

; Little Children,” a fee dollar enaraving , to the person getting ap 
p the Club. 

( With an extra copy of the Magazine for 1879, as a premium, to 

\ the person getting up the Club. 

With both an extra copy of the Magazine for 1879, and the 
premium picture, a five dollar engraving , to the person getting up 
the Club. 

! 

Address, post-paid, 

CHARLES J. PETERSON, 

306 Chestnut St M Philadelphia 


{ 





A New Novel of Great Power. 



The Earl of Mayfield is a new novel, written by a noted American author, 
most of the scenes of which are in America, while some of the characters are those 
of persons who were conspicuous in our civil war, just published by T. B. Peterson & 
Brothers, Philadelphia. It deals largely with real life and historical personages, 
which are treated with a master’s pen, while the scenes are varied, and full of interest 
and instruction. The opening scenes are in the South, some of them being laid on a 
sugar plantation, and much food for pleasant meditation will be found in the study of 
the several characters portrayed, and one will watch with interest the course of the 
hero, Thomas Carew, who is a rich Louisiana planter at the beginning of the story, is 
loyal to the Union, and after many trials and sacrifices, which must not be alluded to 
here lest the reader’s interest may be weakened, becomes the recognized heir to a title 
and great estate in England. There is an air of realism about the whole narrative, 
and the chapters describing certain events in Washington during the war, and scenes 
with President Lincoln and members of his Cabinet, are especially notable in this 
respect. Evidently the writer is a Southerner, who lias, however, a lofty estimate of 
the great character of Abraham Lincoln, though he rates some of his advisers much 
lower. It would be impossible to enumerate the many virtues of the lovely and per- 
fectly pure heroine, Mary Stuart, or the pleasing qualities of Boiseau, White-field, 
Brandon, Randolph and other characters in the work, but in praising worth, we must 
not fail to mention the faithful Mignon, whose equal for love and interest in her fair 
mistress is rarely found. The incidents and scenes laid in Italy cannot fail to please 
the most fastidious, and will be found to have the rare merit of making the reader wish 
there were more of them. It has the advantage of having but few characters, with 
good descriptions, excellent dialogues, and well sustained interest. The style is easy, 
and the incidents of a romantic character, together with the descriptions of scenery 
and social life in Louisiana, Italy, and in England, combine with the historical events 
embodied in the story to make “ The Earl of Mayfield ” a book that will be read with 
delight and advantage by thousands of Americans. It is printed in large, clear type, 
and the paper and binding are unexceptionable . — Evening Bulletin, 

Complete in One Volume, Morocco Cloth, Black and Gold. Price $1.50. 

tfffp The Earl of Mayfield will be found for sale by all Booksellers and News Agents , 
and on all Bail Boad Trains , or copies of it will be sent to any one , to any place } at once , 
per mail , post-paid , on remitting $1.50 in a letter to the Publishers , 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 

306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa. 












I 


* 





. T. ' I. ' 











X 









isasra^ 











